


high noon

by captainamericagf



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-08-23 17:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 64,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16623467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainamericagf/pseuds/captainamericagf
Summary: You’re the closest thing the gang has to a doctor, picked up in Blackwater while running from a dangerous husband and loveless marriage.Arthur Morgan is the man who swore off foolish relationships. But somehow you turn him into a fool yet again.





	1. night robbery

**Author's Note:**

> what do you do when you've already got a wip you're posting? make another! genius move.
> 
> chapter warnings: blood, mentions of abuse

_Dutch and his bleeding heart. Or at least that’s what he calls it. While in Blackwater this girl tried to rob Micah. When we tracked her down she started crying, said she was running from a bad husband and a bad marriage and don’t know what else to do. Micah said to leave her, but Dutch thought she could join us for a while._

_But the problem is nice girls like her don’t last long with people like us._

* * *

The camp is relatively quiet. Dutch took most of the men out scouting for the next job. You think it’s a train robbery, but you’re not sure. As the newest member of the group you’re not exactly privy to everything. Not to mention the only reason why you’re here is because Dutch van der Linde took pity on you. If it was up to Micah, you’d still be on the streets.

With not much else to do, you sit by yourselves surrounded by trees with a book in your lap. The wind softly blows the pages so you have to keep pushing them back down.

It’s been a week since you joined the Van Der Linde gang and you’re not quite sure what to make of it. There’s quite a diverse cast of characters in the camp ranging from sweet Mary-Beth to drunk Reverend Swanson to boisterous Bill. You’re still not quite sure where you fit in, which is why going off on your own seems so inviting.

The snapping of a branch makes you jump. For a split second you think it’s Flynn come to take you away back your miserable life as his wife, but instead it’s Abigail Roberts.

“Sorry to bother you,” she says, wringing her hands, “but Jack’s started coughing and his face is a bit warm.”

You nod and close the book. “I’ll be right there.”

That’s really what you’re here for. With a father for a doctor, you learned from him the best you could, even if becoming a physician is out of your reach. At least it can do the group well for as long as you stay.

You’re quiet as you trail behind Abigail. She rambles on about symptoms. The cough started this morning, but now he’s got a temperature. Jack’s never been real sick before, but Abigail is a right mother hen. That’s one thing you quickly learned about her. She tends to hover over Jack quite a bit and obsesses over where he is or what he’s doing. You can’t imagine how hard it is to raise a kid in this kind of life.

As you pass by Tilly and Jenny they give their good mornings. So do the other women save for Molly. She keeps to herself in her shared tent with Dutch. You’re not really sure how they ended up a couple, but you’re not about to ask.

Uncle and Swanson are still here, both severely hungover. You’re also not sure why they’re allowed to stick around. Again, you won’t ask.

If anything you feel more like a guest than member of the gang. It’s like at some point they’ll tell you your time is up and you’ll be left to fend for yourself again. At least now you know not to try and rob dangerous looking men like Micah Bell. You’re still lucky Dutch intervened fast enough that you weren’t shot to death.

A quick check up on Jack tells you he’s just got the average cold. He’s a sweet little boy that wants to show you his toys, though his voice is funny with the stuffed up nose.

“He’ll be fine,” you tell Abigail. “Just make sure he keeps drinking.”

She lets out a breath. “Thank God. I just worry about him, you know?”

You understand more than you let on. You were once in her position, your son your responsibility. But now he’s buried in Tiller Ranch just outside Armadillo. Three years old with a bullet in his head from his father’s gun. You shudder thinking about it despite the heat from the sun.

“You okay?” asks Abigail.

You give a rather unconvincing nod. “I’m fine, Miss Roberts.”

A stampede of horses approaches the camp as the men dismount. You’re struggling to remember all of their names. Dutch is the leader. He was with Arthur and Micah in Blackwater. Where Arthur is more quiet and reserved, Micah is loud and obnoxious. He’s already tested your patience many, many times.

The group of them are talking as they hitch their horses, discussing different escape plans. The train is going up toward the Grizzlies and there’s a good stretch of land where it’ll be in the middle of nowhere. They’ll hit it tonight just after dark.

With so many people coming toward the camp at once, your instinct is to run. You try to be inconspicuous as you head back toward your spot in the trees, but Dutch stops you when he grasps your shoulder.

“And how are you doing?” he asks.

“Been better,” you say, itching to leave, “but I’ve also been worse.”

He lets go of you and rejoins the others. A few of them glance in your direction. There’s Lenny, a charming boy that seems too young for a group like this. Charles offers you a smile – he’s been nothing but kind since you arrived.

A couple of them come over to talk to you. Charles asks how you’re getting along with everyone. John thanks you for helping Jack. And, as usual, Arthur doesn’t say anything. After a week with barely anything from him, you start to wonder if he’s got something against you. He seems friendly enough with everyone else, so he can’t be shy. He’s distant, like he’s holding you at arm’s length.

“Don’t worry about him,” says Charles. “He can be a bit of an acquired taste.”

Your cheeks heat up and you hope that no one saw you looking at Arthur as he retreated to his tent.

“I wasn’t worried,” you say. Before Charles can make another remark you leave for the trees, your cheeks still warm.

* * *

When the sun is down, the robbery is on.

Left behind are the women plus Pearson, Jack, Strauss, Uncle, and Swanson. The latter two are already passed out drunk somewhere nearby. Meanwhile the woman are sitting around a campfire, laughing and goofing around. Not you, though. You’re at your cot, pretending to read. It’s too loud to concentrate and you’re too afraid to leave the camp in the dark.

Karen calls your name. “Come over here!”

You can tell she’s already had a few beers from the way she struggles to stand up straight.

“I really shouldn’t drink,” you say. “If someone comes back injured they’ll need my help.”

“At least come join us, then!” Her accent is even thicker than usual.

After a moment of deliberation, you realize this the moment that will define your place in the group. Will you forever be the outsider, used until you can leave? Or will you make some sort of impact and actually make some friends for once? Flynn barely let you leave the house. It wouldn’t hurt to have friends.

“Just for a while,” you concede. Most of them start clapping, smiles on their faces as you leave your book behind and sit down on a crate.

“Didn’t know you had much of a voice,” says Jenny.

“It’s been a long time since I really got to use it,” you say and instantly regret it. You don’t need them asking any questions.

“What’s that mean?” says Mary-Beth.

“It’s just…” You shake your head. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, come on!” says Abigail. “You’ve been with us a week and we barely know anything about you.”

You shrug. “There’s not much to know.”

“Then where you from?” asks Tilly.

“New York.”

“What’s that like?” asks Karen.

“Who cares what it’s like?” says Uncle, drunkenly stumbling toward the fire with a beer in hand.

There’s a collection of angry grumbling coming from the ladies and you can’t help but laugh a little. It feels good.

“Sit your drunk ass down, Uncle,” says Abigail.

He says something incoherent before passing out on the grass.

You’re mostly quiet as the conversation shifts away from you. There’s a bit of singing, though you don’t know the lyrics. There’s inside jokes you don’t understand. It’s like being with Flynn and his family. You stick out like a sore thumb yet everyone forgets you’re there. And you’re sure the ladies don’t mean any harm by it. But there’s a perfectly good cot with your name on it that you’d much rather be sitting on than this rough crate.

The laughter dies down for a moment and a somber mood suddenly takes its place.

“Shouldn’t they be back by now?” says Abigail. She’s begun to fidget nervously.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” says Tilly.

“I hope you’re right.”

Another beat of silence and something pops into your head. “Can I ask you girls a question?” you say. “Is Arthur shy?”

“Arthur? Arthur Morgan?” says Karen with raised eyebrows.

You frown. “Is there another Arthur?”

“He ain’t shy.”

“Oh.”

“Why?” asks Abigail. “Did he do something?” She looks like she’s preparing herself to hurt him upon his return.

“No, it’s nothing,” you say quickly, waving the words away with your hands. “Forget I said it.”

Just then the group returns, though they seem eerily quiet for a bunch of men that just robbed a train.

“Something’s wrong,” says Mary-Beth.

She’s proven right when someone falls off their horse. It’s too dark to see who it is. Dutch comes into sight first. He jumps off his horse before it even comes to a stop. He goes to help the person that fell along with someone who looks like Charles.

“Arthur’s hurt!” John calls out.

What you hear is, “Time to work.”

Your stuff is at Strauss’ wagon which is where Dutch and Charles lead Arthur to. He’s got a nasty wound on his side that’s bled through his clothes. His skin has turned a scary pale and he’s barely able to walk on his own. They nearly drop him to the ground where he barely moves.

Helping your father was one thing. Actually being a doctor is another.

“Mr. Morgan, can you hear me?” you say as you start tearing apart his clothes.

He coughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

“What happened?”

“Lawman shot him,” says Javier.

It looks like the bullet went straight through, though that means having to take care of two wounds instead of one. You use alcohol to clean the wound and wash off the blood, but the sting makes Arthur grunt and clench his fists.

The others move away to give you space. With most of the blood gone you can start to work on closing up the wounds.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Morgan?” you ask.

“Like I just got shot in my goddamn gut.” He grunts again as he tries to sit up. “Where’s Micah? I’m gonna kill the sonuvabitch.”

“Just try and relax, Mr. Morgan.”

Dutch suddenly appears with a bottle of whiskey that he hands Arthur. “For the pain, son.”

Arthur wastes no time downing nearly the entire bottle at once. When he finishes he lets the bottle fall to the grass. It’s a good thing he’s got alcohol running through his system helps ease the pain of cauterizing the wounds. He stays silent, but arches off the bed a bit as his eyes squeeze shut.

Closing the wounds is easy, but you don’t know what kind of damage was done inside. But at least the worst is over as you wraps bandages around Arthur’s torso. He pulls his shirt back down when you rip the bandage off the roll with your teeth. By now he’s calmed down a bit as the whiskey does its job. You’re sure once he’s sober Micah will be getting an earful.

The camp has settled down, too. The others are clearly worried for Arthur’s well-being, particularly Dutch who keeps pacing at his own tent.

“Mrs. Brooks, right?” says Arthur.

You cringe at the name but don’t bother to correct him. Legally, there isn’t anything  _to_  correct. But it’s a reminder of a life you’re so desperate to leave behind. You nod.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Brooks.”

You meet his eyes, a soft hazel. “You’re very welcome, Mr. Morgan.” You pat his arm. “Now get some rest. You’ll need it.”

Arthur closes his eyes and you wait a couple of seconds to make sure he actually keeps them closed. Once you’re satisfied, you head for the full bucket of water near Pearson’s tent to wash the blood off your hands.

“How is he?” asks Dutch as he follows in step next to you.

“As long has he doesn’t develop an infection he’ll be fine.” Dutch helps pour some of the water onto your hands and you scrub them clean. “He’s lucky to have people that worry about him.”

Dutch gives a bit of a dry laugh. “Not lucky enough to not get shot.”

* * *

When morning comes you’re almost surprised to see that Arthur is alive. He’s sleeping in his bed when you go to check on him, soundlessly even. His hat has blown off his table, so you pick it up and place it back where it belongs.

He’s actually rather handsome when you get a good look at him. He’s recently shaven, though his hair is on the longer side. He has to be in his late thirties, but it can get hard to tell with outlaws like him.

“I saw that,” says Abigail as she smirked into her coffee.

“Saw what?”

She doesn’t answer, instead giving you a smile and walking away with her coffee in hand. There was nothing to see and there was nothing wrong with you getting a good look at him. His face is normally hidden by his hat and him mostly avoiding you did nothing to help. Not that it matters. What Abigail thinks is irrelevant. You just hope she doesn’t start spreading rumors.

You glance over at Arthur’s sleeping form again and shake your head.


	2. debt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh wow i am just....speechless at such an amazing response you guys have given this already. like there's no word in my vocabulary to express how much it means to me!!! 
> 
> chapter warnings: language, brief violence, mentions of past abuse

_The new girl saved my life last night. Got shot robbing some train Micah heard about. The son of a bitch doesn’t even seem remorseful about it. He’s only been with us for a few months, but I look forward to whenever he dies or leaves._

* * *

A week goes by and Arthur recovers well with no sign of infection. You keep an eye on him while trying to give him some space. Once he’s sober and coherent he turns all his energy to rage toward Micah. But unlike Flynn, Arthur’s anger is mostly cold. Where Flynn would’ve beat the shit out of Micah for getting him hurt, Arthur makes overt jabs and repeatedly brings up the incident as a reminder, though no one has really forgotten. Especially you.

But when one job is done, another one takes its place. With the robbery botched, there wasn’t much of a take. Soon Susan pulls you aside to introduce you to the camp fund.

“Everyone has to contribute,” she tells you.

“But I’m keeping everyone alive,” you say.

You know very well you’re not quite cut out for an outlaw life. The others know how to do odd jobs, collect bounties, or find heists that earn bags of money, but you’re just the camp’s doctor. Before this you were just the wife of a wealthy rancher meant to look pretty and pop out kids.

“And we thank you for it,” says Susan. “But we all have to eat, Mrs. Brooks.”

Once she walks away you let out a breath. Of course there’s still the option of leaving and heading up north. You might be able to garner enough sympathy to get a ride, but once you’re there, then what? You’ve got no money, no reputation. This gang is the best chance you have of surviving.

The medical supplies have been moved from Strauss’ wagon to your tent and when you take in inventory, you realize how low you’re running. After fixing up Arthur’s bullet wound and helping out the others as they get into bar fights and mishaps, there’s just barely anything left. But getting more means going into Blackwater and you have no doubt Flynn’s still looking for you. You _could_ try and trust someone else to get what you need, but sometimes to do something right, you need to do it yourself.

You spot Dutch speaking with Hosea and Bill by the fire and wring your hands as you wait for an opening.

“Mr. van der Linde?” you say. “I hate to bother you, but we’re running low on medicine. I was hoping someone could escort me into town if it isn’t any trouble.”

“That’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Brooks,” he says. His eyes scan the camp. “Arthur!”

He’s recently returned to the camp with Javier, looking tired and frustrated. “What is it, Dutch?” His voice is even deeper from the lack of sleep.

“Mrs. Brooks needs a ride into town to pick up medical supplies. I do believe you owe her for saving your life.”

Arthur strides over and places his hands on his belt buckle. “That I do.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Morgan,” you say quickly. “I was just doing my job.”

“You saved his _life,_ ” says Dutch. “We’re eternally grateful.”

You’re not quite sure you like the view from the pedestal Dutch is putting you on. He seems like a nice enough man who cares deeply about the people in this gang. Even during you two week stay he’s been nothing but accommodating.

“We should get going before it gets busy,” says Arthur.

You follow him to the empty wagon and he helps you up, your skirt making any kind of climbing a bit difficult. He’s at your side moments later and takes the reins into his hands. Before you can leave, the Callander boys suddenly appear next to the wagon.

“Mrs. Brooks,” says Mac. “Can you tell us what your favorite color is?”

A bit uncertain, you tell them. They thank you and run off. Strange.

The ride is bumpy as you leave the camp behind, moving through the trees as you enter the desert outside of Blackwater. The idea of going back into the city fills you with such terrible dread that you’re worried you might lose your breakfast.

“Everything okay, Mrs. Brooks?” says Arthur.

“I’m alright,” you answer, a hand over your stomach as you attempt to quell the sudden nausea. “Though perhaps I’m a tad bit nervous.” You clear your throat. “I’m sorry to pull you away like this. I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do.”

“It’s the least I could do.”

Desperate for a change of subject you ask, “How are you feeling today?”

“Well, I’m alive.”

“You seem rather tired.”

“Spent all night watching some house with Javier. Turned out to be nothing.”

You're really not sure how to respond. “That’s a...shame.”

Arthur laughs for reasons unknown.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

“If you’re gonna stay with us, you’re gonna have to start living like us.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stealing, murdering – it’s what we do, Mrs. Brooks.”

Another wave of nausea rolls through the pit of your stomach. Robbing you can learn. But murdering? “I’m well aware of what you do. I’ve actually heard about you lot before. Mr. Van der Linde once robbed my father-law-of his entire life savings.”

“Small world.”

“My husband has held a grudge ever since. If he ever found out I was with Dutch van der Linde of all people…” You shake your head. “He even killed my horse just because I spoke with one of the more attractive ranch hands.”

Arthur pauses. “He killed your horse because of…jealousy?”

“Sadly, yes. Her name was Chestnut. She was such a good and loyal horse. Now I’ve got nothing and I hate to ask to borrow anyone else’s.”

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I didn’t want to be a bother.”

“You ain’t being a bother.”

Arthur brings the wagon to a stop outside the general store and helps you down. Your boots click against the cobblestone street. With it being so early in the morning, most people aren’t out yet, though you know by noontime the sidewalk is likely to become crowded. The last thing you need is to be surrounded by strangers, completely unaware if Flynn is hiding among them. Once the horses are hitched, you head for the front door.

“I’ll meet you back here,” says Arthur as he starts walking across the street. “Got some other things to do.”

“Don’t be late, Mr. Morgan,” you say.

He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

Inside you work out a deal with the shopkeeper. The camp doesn’t have enough money for a lot, but it’s enough to buy you a few weeks of supplies – even longer if people stop getting hurt so much. Sean appears to be one of the worst offenders, getting drunk and getting punched. Sometimes you wonder if he does it on purpose.

One of his employees, a boy no older than fifteen, helps you load everything into the wagon. You’re far too stubborn to let him do it alone and you would’ve rather done it by yourself if possible. After your conversation with Susan, you hope that you aren’t coming across as useless beyond your medical expertise.

As you wait for Arthur you browse the shelves as more customers start pouring in. There’s a couple of toys you think Jack would like, though you don’t exactly have the money to spare for them. Then again, you’re with a group of thieves and the storekeeper is busy with someone else. If you’re quick, you might be able to stick something in your shirt and walk out with it.

Before you can even attempt shoplifting, a man bumps into you and drops the bag he’s carrying.

“I’m so sorry,” you say as you bend down to pick up the apples that have spilled from the bag.

“That’s my fault, miss,” says the man.

You both straighten up and you get a good look at him. He’s got a pinched front hat on and a long duster coat over a red waistcoat.

“Wait, you look strangely familiar,” he says. “Have we met before?”

It takes a second, but you recognize him. Atticus, his name is. He used to play poker with Flynn and several other men. You weren’t allowed to be around during this time, instead trapped up on the second floor with Timothy. But you’d met a couple of times.

“I don’t believe we have,” you lie, though your voice is far too quiet and meek. You’re hoping you don’t look as sweaty as you feel.

“Flynn Brooks’ wife, right?” says Atticus. “I heard you ran off and he’s looking for you.” He takes a step closer, crossing your boundaries and forcing you to take a step back.

“I’m actually waiting for my husband,” you say. “He’s dealing with other business.”

“You don’t sound too convinced of that.”

“Maybe I’m just frightened by a strange man cornering me in a store.”

“Oh, believe me. It ain’t me you should be frightened of.”

The front door creaks open and Arthur comes in. His eyes fall on Atticus while his brow furrows.

“My dear husband!” you say, quickly pushing past Atticus and heading for Arthur. “I believe it’s time we left.”

He pauses and you give him your best pleading look. When he doesn’t move, you tug on his arm, but he’s much stronger than you anticipated. Or maybe you’re just much weaker.

“This man bothering you, darling?” he says nodding toward Atticus.

“It’s nothing. Let’s go home.”

You’re not sure what possesses Arthur to approach Atticus. Maybe he’s playing the part a little too well. Or maybe he needs to take out his anger toward Micah on someone else. Either way, he’s downright threatening as he comes face to face with the man who almost took you away.

“I meant no disrespect, mister,” says Atticus, his hands up in surrender.

“What did you mean then? _Mister._ ”

“She just looked like someone I once knew. Swear on my momma’s grave.”

“Your momma proud she raised a son to intimidate any lady he likes?”

“Of course not, sir. She just looked like someone I know.”

“She don’t know you and you don’t know her.”

Atticus looks at you again and you drop your gaze to the ground. You’re not sure what’s worse – almost getting caught the first time you step foot in Blackwater or the fact that Arthur has to take care of your problem.

“Can we please just go?” you say.

Somehow your comment only makes Atticus cocky. “You heard the lady,” he says. “Go.”

Before you can stop him, Arthur lands a punch right on Atticus’ jaw.

“What the hell?” you exclaim.

Arthur shakes out his hand while Atticus falls to the floor. The shopkeeper quickly makes shooing motions with his hands.

“Out, out, out!” he says. “I won’t have more trouble in here!”

For a second it looks like Arthur wants more, so you pull as hard as you can on his arm to make him move. Now he’s more willing to move and as you guide him out of the store he lights up a cigarette before taking a drag.

“Are you out of your mind?” you say as you walk side by side toward the wagon. “You could’ve gotten hurt or worse!”

“Got him off your back, didn’t I?” He tosses the cigarette on the ground and crushes it beneath the toe of his boot.

“You were doing fine before you _punched_ him.”

“And what if he didn’t believe us?”

“He would’ve. The people my husband spent his time with were never that bright.”

“You are.”

His comment leaves you speechless for a second. You both come to a stop at the wagon, your mouth open as your planned retort dies on your tongue.

“Oh,” you say. “Well, I appreciate the compliment, Mr. Morgan. And I understand that you’re all outlaws, but punching people like that is unnecessary. I don’t need you to defend my honor.”

“Well, you need _someone_ to stand up for you.”

“No, I don’t. As grateful as I am for your help, I can take care of myself.”

Arthur helps you up to the wagon again and you both sit in tense silence until he brings it to a stop just outside the stables. He jumps down and comes around to assist you.

“What are you doing, Mr. Morgan?”

“Just come on down here.”

You oblige, though a bit reluctantly. After the business in the general store you’d much rather just go back to camp and hide out in the trees with a book. Once you’re on the ground, Arthur slips a clip of money out of his satchel and hands it to you.

“What is this?” you ask.

He gestures toward the stables. “Go on in. Get yourself a good one.”

You curl his fingers around the bills and push his hand back toward him. “Mr. Morgan, you don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. I still owe you.”

While at first you thought it an act of kindness, now you’re not so sure. You’re still new to this outlaw thing. Is there really some invisible debt that needs to be repaid? Saving Arthur’s life was just a part of your job. But at the same time he did put some thought into it. Flynn never listened to you when he spoke and even when he did, he never remember a single word. But Arthur listened. He listened and he remembered.

No matter how much you want to protest, you take his money anyway. You’d be a fool to turn it down. In the stables you get a beautiful Arabian with white markings. Arthur ties up the reins to the back of the wagon to guide it on the way back home.  

“I can’t thank you enough Mr. Morgan,” you say.

Arthur nods. “It’s no problem, Mrs. Brooks.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what I want to name her. I can’t name her Chestnut, of course. There was only one Chestnut.” You through a list of possible names. Sapphire, Magnolia, Scarlet. None of them seemed to fit.

During the ride Arthur stays quiet as you ramble on, talking about how great Chestnut was and how much you miss her. But that doesn’t mean you won’t love this new horse any less. You’re the most excited you’ve been in years, elated just thinking about going for a ride and feeling the wind rush past you. It feels like forever since you last had such a large slice of freedom.

When you return to camp Arthur, Charles, and John help move the supplies over to your tent. However when you first arrive, you see a bouquet of flowers in your favorite color. The Callander boys are nowhere to be seen, but you know it was them. They have a sweet smell to them and a smile finds its way to your lips.

Arthur clears his throat. “I believe that’s everything, Mrs. Brooks.” He sounds somewhat annoyed.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Morgan,” you say. “For everything.”

He tips his hat and walks away without saying anything.


	3. star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man i wanted to make this longer but this was my last chance before the holiday weekend so i hope this suffices lol

_While it is none of my business, them Callander boys leaving Mrs. Brooks flowers irritates me so. She has no idea how vicious that pair can be and I hate to think of getting into trouble because of them._

_Then again, I ain’t any better._

* * *

A storm comes in overnight. The winds blow the cloth tents that protect you all from the elements. Jack takes Abigail into Blackwater where they get a room for the night while many of the others take shelter in Dutch’s tent.

When the morning comes, so does cleanup. Supplies are tossed around the camp and you help Pearson in collecting them. Charles, Sean, and Arthur work on putting the camp back together while Mary-Beth, Tilly, and Karen go into town to replace what was lost.

The Marstons return and Jack is happy to back to his toys, as limited as they are. His cold is completely gone, though it’s now spread to several others. Both Molly and Uncle have come down with symptoms, the latter doing everything he can to milk sympathy from everyone else.

“I feel like I’m dying,” says Uncle as he stumbles through the camp.

“You aren’t dying,” you tell him.

He stops and turns to you, already inebriated so early in the morning. “Oh, yeah? How do you know?”

“Just intuition.”

He mumbles something and wanders off.

“I appreciate the help,” Pearson says as you organize the canned food in a crate.

“It’s not a problem, Mr. Pearson,” you say. “I’m happy to help.”

"About time someone wants to."

Arthur interrupts the two of you, holding a spare rifle in his hands while his own is on his back. In the two weeks you've been in the camp a beard as started coming in and you have to admit it makes him rather handsome. 

“Mrs. Books, you mind joining me?” he asks. 

He pushes the rifle in your direction, but you’d rather stick your hands in lava.

“Where would we be going?” you ask.

“I’m gonna teach you how to shoot.”

You shake your head and take a step back. “Oh, no, no, no. No guns for me.”

“You ain’t gonna survive on your own. What happens if we all get separated or someone ain’t there to scare off some thug of your husband’s?”

Irritation flashes through you. It was _one_ incident and you still think Arthur handled it poorly. So far it Atticus hasn't returned, but you imagine he’ll be telling Flynn at some point that he saw you, or at least a woman that looks a lot like you.

“I’ll find a way out of it that doesn’t involve guns,” you say petulantly. You turn away from him and pick up the crate, briefly noticing Pearson pretending he isn’t hearing anything.

Arthur follows you as you load the crate into the back of Pearson’s wagon. “Then at least come with me for a ride.”

“You’re just going to try and convince me once we’re on horseback.”

He puts up his hands in surrender. “I won’t force you, alright? But just so you know, the offer’s out there.”

As he leaves you behind you can’t help but feel a little guilty. He’s just trying to help. But at the same time the idea of holding a gun makes you nauseous. You’ve seen first hand the kind of irreparable damage it can do.

That night you’re plagued by one of your usual nightmares, but this time there’s something more vivid about it. Flynn is hunting you down and you’ve got nothing to defend yourself with. A chair? A book? Even if you catch him by surprise, can you fight him off? Can you run before he shoots you in the back?

He finally finds you and you wake up the moment a bullet rips through you stomach. The camp is quiet besides the relentless crickets chirping away. The sky is full of bright stars that flicker in the dark. Someone’s snoring breaks through the silence.

You touch your stomach where just moments ago you thought you’d been shot. To your relief, it didn’t come into the real world. A breath escapes your lips, but your heart is still racing.

Maybe Arthur had a point.

Your pocket watch shows it’s just past two in the morning, but your nerves won’t let you wait. Heading over to Arthur’s tent, you shake him awake. He has his hat covering much of his face and it falls off as you move him.

“Mr. Morgan, wake up,” you say urgently.

He groans and removes his arm from where he had it underneath his head. “What?” He opens his eyes. “Mrs. Brooks?”

“Teach me how to shoot.”

He mumbles something incoherent and reaches for his hat, but you snatch it away. He was the one that brought this up, after all.

“You were right. I need to know how to use a gun.”

“Mrs. Brooks, it ia currently nighttime.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Can this not wait until morning?”

“No.”

He sighs. “It’ll be harder to see in the dark.”

“Then it’ll be easier for me to shoot in the daytime.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

He grabs a bunch of empty liquor bottles yet to be disposed and stuffs them into a bag that he attaches to his horse. When he mounts, you do too.

It’s nice to have you own horse now. You still haven’t come up with the perfect name yet and if you don’t soon she might start to think her name is “girl.”

He takes you to an empty field where he places the bottles in a line on a rock before handing you the rifle and sitting down on a sideways log. He’s clearly tired and groggy. You’re beginning to wonder if this is a bad idea, but there’s no going back now. Micah has made comments here and there about you not pulling your weight. If you start appearing flimsy, impulsive, and indecisive you might not have a future with the group for much longer.

“Aim, wait until your lungs are empty, then fire,” he tells you.

He makes it sound so simple and maybe it really is. But then you shoot and miss and honestly you’re not even sure where the bullet went. It goes like this for a while with Arthur criticizing your form, the way you hold the gun, even the way you breathe.

“I’m terrible that this,” you say dejectedly, nearly dropping the rifle from exhaustion. “If there was a book, I could have this mastered in minutes.”

“I don’t think a book can teach you how to shoot,” he argues.

“It can give me detailed instructions, maybe even a drawing.”

“You saying I’m a bad teacher?”

Your cheeks heat up. “Of course not, Mr. Morgan. It’s just that this comes easy to you, I’m sure. We were a bit…different in New York.”

“You mean more civilized.”

“I suppose that’s one way to put it. Not that it made anything better, though. My father still fell ill, I still got taken away by a husband I didn’t love.”

“If you didn’t love him, why’d you marry him?”

“I was supposed to marry him before my father died so I could properly inherit everything. But it didn’t really go according to plan and without my father I was completely bankrupt. I didn’t have much of a choice. Then he dragged me down here to start up a ranch.” You pause. “Were you ever married, Mr. Morgan?”

“Almost, but no.” He sounds sad. 

“Consider yourself lucky. I don’t think it’s all that great.”

He doesn’t say anything else so you raise the rifle again only to make another missed shot. Your temper flares and you’re close to just throwing the gun on the ground and stomping on the dreadful thing.

“Here, try this,”he says.

He comes close to you now, closer than he’s ever been before. It’s not just your cheeks that turn red this time. You swear your entire body is burning as he stands so close that his chest is pressed against your back. Where you come from, this would be frowned upon for an unmarried man and woman, but this is outlaw country now.

He lifts up your arms and positions them just right and helps you keep them steady. It’s much more nerve-wracking with him behind you like this. Does he feel that way too? Or has he lived an outlaw life for so long that he doesn’t know the way the “civilized” world behaves?

“Breathe in,” he says, his own breath on your neck.

Goosebumps rise on your arms and legs and you hope he doesn’t notice. You inhale, filling up your lungs as much as possible.

“Now breathe out.”

You exhale until there’s nothing left.

“Fire.”

You pull the trigger and, to your surprise, it finally hits one of the bottles. It explodes on impact, shards shooting into the air and falling on the grass. It catches you off guard that it barely registers at first.

“See?" He pats your back with pride. "You don’t need some book.”

You shake your head and lower the rifle. “I don’t when I have an excellent teacher.”

He almost seems bashful as he places his hands on his belt and looks down at his feet while he kicks the dirt. With his head tipped down his hat covers his face and it’s impossible to tell what he’s feeling.

* * *

After that Arthur takes you out to the same field every night, though not at two in the morning. Instead it’s after dinner is served. You both ride out, chatting about things like Uncle’s complaining or Micah’s personality. You get better each time and soon you’re able to hit more bottles than miss them. However your lessons have to come to an end after an irritated Hosea mentions he and Arthur were supposed to be looking into a job in Blackwater. On the last night Arthur surprises you with some whiskey as a congratulatory gift.

“I don’t drink,” you say as he offers you a flask. “I mean, I wasn’t _allowed_ to drink.”

“Then here’s your chance to break the rules.”

You take the flask and a drink, choking as it burns down your throat. Arthur laughs and you playfully smack his arm.

“You’re horrible, Mr. Morgan.”

He laughs again and drinks the whiskey just fine.

“I just want you to know how much I appreciate this,” you say, glancing up at the night sky.

“If my memory serves right you didn’t want to learn how to shoot.”

“It’s…complicated.”

“It always is.”

There’s a brief pause. “When you said you were almost married, does that mean you were engaged?” Before he can even answer you quickly tack on, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

“I was engaged, yes.”

“Engaged?”

He frowns. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t sound like nothing.”

“It’s just – no offense, Mr. Morgan, but you don’t seem like a family man.”

“That’s because I’m not.” He takes another swig of whiskey and wipes his lips on the back of his hand. “Her family made that abundantly clear.”

“Ah, the in laws. Always a troublesome bunch.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, you might not be a _family_ man, but you’re still a _good_ man.”

“Weren’t you all upset because I punched that feller in Blackwater?”

“Oh, yes I was. But I know you had good intentions.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“My husband wouldn’t have done that for me. Or maybe he would have, but only if it was a man trying to take me away from him.”

He doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to drink some more whiskey. Above the stars twinkle down at you.

“Star!” you exclaim.

“Excuse me?” says Arthur, slightly startled.

“I’ll name my horse Star.”

“You still ain’t named her?”

“I have now. I mean, it’s starry out right now you’re the one who paid for her so it seems fitting.”

"I owed you."

"Well, now she can be named after you. Sort of."

You head back to camp shortly after. Arthur rides just fine despite the amount of whiskey he drank. Even that one sip made you a bit tipsy. Once the horses are hitched, you return to your cot.

That night you don’t have a dream about Flynn. He isn’t chasing you down, looking to shoot and kill you.

Instead you dream about Arthur Morgan and his chest up against your back. 


	4. poker night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly y'all are so amazing
> 
> chapter warnings: mentions of abuse

_Been looking into a possible scam with Hosea. I have to admit, Mrs. Brooks’ presence has been sorely missed. She rambles on quite a bit, but her voice is rather soothing. I don’t dare mention this to anyone lest I open myself up to ridicule._

* * *

Sean doesn’t know how to shut up. That much is obvious. It’s probably why the side of his face is horribly bruised and there’s swelling around his left eye. Even as you’re trying to take the swelling down he’s still _talking._

“-and I said, ‘That’s no way to talk to a lady’ and socked him in the jaw, I did.” To make his point he pretends to punch the man who supposedly left his cheek black and blue. His fist narrowly misses your own face as you jump back.

“That sounds very brave, Mr. MacGuire,” you say dryly.

“Of course it’s brave, lass! Defending a woman’s honor is what I do best, don’t you know.”

“We’re all thankful you’re here.”

“You better well be. Most men would take advantage of the pretty women here, but not Sean MacGuire!”

It takes everything in you to not to make his face symmetrical, but you’ve got far more restraint than you give yourself credit for. You dismiss Sean when you’re done, advising him to lay off the vigilante work for a while.

The camp is currently missing Arthur and Hosea who have been staying in Blackwater investigating a lead for the past few days. It’s a bit lonely without Arthur, if you’re being honest. Your shooting lessons with him are done with for now, but you still go out by yourself in hopes of improving more and more. You’ve gotten so used to holding a gun in your hand that it almost makes you nauseous.

That night they return quietly and discuss something with Dutch in his tent. With nothing else to do, you retreat to your spot in the trees where you start rereading one of your books. Or really one of the camp’s books. You don’t have much of a selection anymore, not that you had one to begin with. Flynn always said nothing was more dangerous than a woman who read.

Eventually your eyes start getting tired so you mark your spot and start heading into camp. As you make your way back to your cot a rather drunk Sean calls out to you where he’s playing poker with most of the men. “Mrs. Brooks! Why don’t you join us for a hand?”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“It’s no trouble,” says Dutch. He grabs a spare chair and pulls it up between him and Hosea. “In fact, I believe we’re dire need of some new blood.”

“Oh, I see,” says Micah, letting one of his arms hang off the back of his chair. “We pick people who have no chance of winning so the rest of us can win more.”

“Watch your tongue before I take it,” says Arthur with a scowl.

“Gentlemen, let’s be civil for our guest,” says Dutch, gesturing to you. “Assuming she _is_ our guest.”

With all of them staring at you, you’ve got very little choice in the matter. “I suppose a little bit won’t hurt.”

“Excellent!” Dutch pats the empty seat. “I promise you we won’t bite.”

Settled between Dutch and Hosea you suddenly feel small. Your father taught you how to play poker, but more importantly he taught you how to hustle. No one, not even the most progressive of men, take you seriously enough to see you as a formidable opponent.

“Use men’s weakness to your advantage,” he once told you. “There’s plenty of it to work with.”

When you see Micah smirking smugly your way, you know you didn’t just sit down to play. You sat down to _win_.

“Have you ever played before, Mrs. Brooks?” asks Hosea as Strauss deals the cards.

“A few times back in New York,” you say. It’s not entirely a lie. “And you all don’t have to keep calling me that. My first name is perfectly fine.”

You purposefully lose the first hand and then the second. John doesn’t fair well, folding both times. Sean wins the first one, pulling the chips in toward him with a gleeful, Irish cheer.

It’s the third round that you finally step up your game. By now their guard has been let down and you can hear some chuckles from Micah when it gets to your turn. It grates on you, but you’ll be the one laughing in the end. In your hands sits the key to a royal flush.

“I think I’m all in, boys,” you say, pushing all your chips to the center.

“Oh, she’s all in?” says Micah. He takes this as a challenge and pushes all his chips in the pot. “So am I.”

“And I,” says Sean, sacrificing his previous winnings.

John petulantly throws his cards down. “I’m out.”

Everyone else joins him, leaving you staring down Sean and Micah, both of them so confident they’ll win that it’s hard for you to keep up the dumb, innocent façade. The showdown comes and you happily reveal your beautiful royal flush to the rest of the group.

“No fucking way,” says Micah. He’s in a state of shock at first, looking at his own cards before examining yours.

“It looks like you’ve lost, Mr. Bell,” says Dutch with a laugh.

“No.” Micah gets to his feet. “No, no, no.”

“Well, that was an unfortunate turn of events,” says Sean, placing his cards down to show four of a kind.

You stifle the shit eating grin that’s threatening to crawl across your lips. On the other side of Hosea Arthur is looking impressed, smiling as Micah starts to head toward a meltdown. Watching Micah slowly realized he lost all his chips gave you a bit of satisfaction that you can’t even put into words. He even looks close to taking out his gun and shooting you for revenge.

“She cheated!” he exclaimed. “No, wait. She _hustled._ She hustled me!”

“The girl won fair and square,” says Dutch.

Micah looks back and forth between you and Dutch as if he expected him to take his side. Instead you’ve got the sole attention of the gang’s leader and it drives Micah _nuts_. You’ve managed to piss him off in more ways than one in just a single move.

“It’s just a card game, Mr. Bell,” you say.

Angered, he storms off and kicks a crate for good measure. The others congratulate you on a well-played game, collecting their own small winnings or taking their losses and heading to bed. You stay and help clean up after the game, moving chairs back where they belonged.

“That was well done,” says Hosea as he stacks the cards.

“I’ll be honest with you, I _was_ hustling,” you admit. You push all the chips toward him. “You can put all this into the camp’s fund.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, no. It’s Micah’s fault for underestimating you.”

“That’s not fair. I don’t need all this.”

“Then you can put it in the fund yourself. I was actually hoping you might help me and Arthur with something. During our stay in Blackwater we found out about a poker ring where a group of rich fellers play for big money.”

You pause. “You want me to hustle for you.”

“Precisely.”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Messing with Micah was one thing. This just seems so…dishonest.”

He puts up his hands. “If you don’t want to I won’t hold it against you.”

“I didn’t say no.” You chew on the inside of your cheek. Susan _has_ still been on you about contributing more than fixing up bruises and sprains. There hasn’t been much major trouble since Arthur was shot during the train robbery leaving you with little to nothing to do beyond reading and practicing your shooting. “When is the next game?”

“Tomorrow night. Ten o’clock sharp.”

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

* * *

This is…different to say the least. Mary-Beth, Karen, and Tilly take you into Blackwater to pick out a nice dress that you use your newfound winnings to buy. The rest of it is going to the camp’s fund like you wanted.

You’ll be going as Mrs. Iris Blake, the wife of Arthur’s Mr. Harold Blake, an oil baron coming to survey New Austin. To fill in those fictitious shoes you need to dress the part and you only have three different outfits that are far more fit for a rancher’s wife. The three of them have fun dressing you up, making you try on egregious outfits that even the rich and powerful in New York wouldn’t wear.  

“This reminds me of a novel I read a few months ago,” says Mary-Beth as the tailor picks out another dress.

“Which part?” you ask.

“You and Arthur pretending to be husband and wife. Except in the book they fall in love along the way.”

“I highly doubt that’s going to happen. I like him, but he isn’t exactly my type.”

“Then what _is_ your type?”

“Oh, don’t get her started,” says Karen with a dramatic eye roll.

“I haven’t thought about it much, I suppose. Though there was this neighbor boy when I was younger. He was always so sweet and brought me flowers every day and took me down to see the water.”

“That sounds so romantic,” says Mary-Beth dreamily.

“And so not Arthur,” says Tilly with a laugh.

“He can be romantic in his own way.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” you ask.

A faint blush spreads across Mary-Beth’s cheeks. “Oh, no! Of course not! I just mean that I remember seeing him and that Mary all those years ago.”

“Mary?”

“His former fiancé,” says Karen.

For some reason having a name to the mysterious woman Arthur almost married grates on you.

“She’s been gone a long time, though,” says Tilly. “Never did like her that much.”

They finally decide on a fancy green dress and a large feathery hat. Even in the city you never dressed like this before, your clothes always getting ruined by helping out your father in his clinic.

When night falls they help you get dressed, typing up your corset and readjusting your hat several times until it balances in just the right spot.

“Well, get a gander at the new girl,” says Micah, wandering over to where Mary-Beth is straightening out the skirt.

“Don’t you have something better to do?” asks Karen.

“Not at the moment, no.”

“I do have you to thank for it,” you say.

He scowls and walks away.

“You look lovely, Y/N,” says Dutch as he approaches.

“Thank you. I do feel awfully out of place.”

He waves his hand. “Nonsense. You’ll be just fine. I trust Hosea and Arthur with my life, with this gang.” He gestures around the camp. “I know that if anything goes wrong they will have your back.”

Hosea has procured a coach that Charles will be driving, providing an extra gun if things go south. You sure hope they don’t. This entire thing is already stressful enough, even if you’re successful. Arthur is waiting by the coach, dressed in a nice black suit. He keeps touching his hair which has been recently trimmed.

As you make your way to him you catch his eye and he drops his arms to his sides before tugging on the puff tie tucked into his vest.

“How do I look?” you ask, spinning around so he can see the entire thing.

He pauses for a moment and you start to feel self-conscious. “You look…nice.”

You frown. “Nice? I’m blushing.”

“I just mean you look nice, don’t read anything into it.”

“I need to look more than nice if this is going to work.”

“You nervous?”

“Of course I’m nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before. Learning to shoot a gun at stationary bottles is one thing. Hustling a group of rich and powerful men is another.”

“If you handle yourself the way you did last night you’ll be fine.”

“That was mostly just to annoy Micah and prove a point. These men could kill me.”

“So could Micah.”

“Touché. I was thinking, we should probably speak with the same accent.”

“It don’t matter that much.”

“It does! Or _maybe_ Mrs. Iris Blake is an heiress who married foolish Harold for his eventual fortune, just like she did the last three husbands. It’s all just a coincidence they turned up dead.”

He frowns, his eyebrows scrunched together. “What are you talking about?”

“We need to have backstories. Otherwise we’re just two dimensional characters in a poorly written book.”

“We’re not…this ain’t a story.”

“No, it’s more like a play since we’re playing the parts. We’re like actors.”

“Not really.”

Hosea and Charles finally emerge from camp, both dressed as nicely.

“Let’s go,” says Hosea. “We’re meeting Trelawny along the way.”

“Who’s Trelawny?” you ask.

* * *

Trelawny, it turns out, is quite the odd conman. His accent is a mix of British and American and he has a curled moustache that, combined with his nice clothes, make him look more of a city dweller. It’s hard to believe that this man is also a part of the gang with his style so wildly different.

Hosea introduces the both of you and with a gloved hand, Trelawny takes yours and kiss the back of it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you madam,” he says. “I’ve heard many great things about you such as your knack for poker!”

“Well, we’ll see if I can prove myself,” you say.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” says Hosea.

“We must really be off,” says Trewlany. “Late comers are rather frowned upon, you know.”

With your dress so big you’re forced to sit on one side while Hosea and Arthur are on the other and Trelawny joins Charles. They go over the plan again and discuss escape routes in case things go wrong. The game isn’t in Blackwater but instead in a cabin out at Tanner’s Reach. It’s remote and out of the law’s gaze, which means a harder getaway if necessary.

Before Arthur can help you out, Trelawny is already at the door offering you his hand. You hear Arthur groan.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Trelawny,” you say putting on a thick fake accent to mirror Arthur.

This makes him smile. “Of course, Mrs. Blake.”

Charles stays with the coach while Trelawny escorts the rest of you to the cabin. The front is illuminated by dim lights, barely letting you see the way beyond the darkness of night. A couple of men stand out front smoking together.

“Gentlemen,” says Trelawny in greeting. They nod in his direction as they let you all pass.

The cabin is rather tight inside. If there had been any other furniture it had all been removed, leaving only a circular table where a group of rich, suited men sat playing poker. Their wives sat together in the corner, talking with one another, all wearing big dresses and hats like you. Except he moment they saw you they stopped, looking you up and down with judgmental stares.

“Ah, Mr. Trelawny,” says a man with hair only around the sides of his head and tiny glasses perched in front of his eyes. “How nice to see you.”

They shake hands while you, Arthur, and Hosea wait behind him.

“The pleasure is all mine, my dear boy,” says Trelawny. “Mr. Silas, this is Mr. Weston Blake, his son Harold, and Harold’s wife Iris. Harold is an up and coming oil baron looking for a nice spot out West.”

“Welcome, Mr. Blake and Mr. Blake.” Silas shakes both the hands of Hosea and Arthur before finally turning to you. “What was your name again?”

“Iris, sir.”

Arthur made a coughing sound that almost came off like he was choking.

“Are you alright, Mr. Blake?” asks Silas, lines of concern in his forehead.

“I’m quite alright, Mr. Silas,” says Arthur. “Don’t mind me.” When Silas starts leading you all toward the poker table Arthur mumbles under his breath, “So you’re doing the accent, huh?”

“I’m _acting._ ”

“Is that what you call it?”

You elbow him inconspicuously just as Silas starts shepherding you toward the wives in the corner. He doesn’t take the time to introduce you and you’re left feeling more like a child being thrown in a pen with other children rather than a dignified woman married to an oil baron. Not that you actually are of course, but you need to keep up the act.

“Hello, ladies,” you say. Your voice shakes a bit from the nervousness and you clear your throat while a few of the wives laugh to themselves. “My name is Iris Blake.”

“We heard,” says one of them, casually fanning herself.

They go back to talking amongst themselves and excluding you, so you find a place to sit by yourself and wait for your cue. Hosea goes outside to talk with someone and Trelawny is busy discussing with another. Arthur stays true to the script and plays the game honestly to gain credibility among the other players. He glances over at you a few times with reassurance.

Eventually he gets up. “Fellers, I hate to interrupt but I’ve been itching for a cigarette.” He looks at you. “Perhaps my lovely wife would like to take my place.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say as you approach. “I ain’t quite that good.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fun,” says Silas. “Come join us, Mrs. Blake!”

“If you insist.”

Your heart is racing as you take Arthur’s seat and he joins Hosea outside. With Trewlany speaking animatedly with someone in the corner, you’re left completely on your own. Did everyone else have such a stressful time during their first job?

You play the same way you did last night. Lose the first two rounds, then wait for the kill. Silas introduces you to some of the other men. There’s Miller, Nathan, Ryder, and Sinclair. All rich, all vultures. You’ve known many men like them before.

You’re just about to place down your winning cards when the door open and someone walks in.

“I see you’ve all started without me.”

Your stops racing. In fact, it goes dreadfully cold. Your blood freezes through your body, leaving you stuck like an icicle as you try to convince yourself it’s not _him._

“You were told when to arrive, Mr. Brooks,” says Silas. “You were sent the invitation.”

He comes into your view at this point. Quickly you turn your head down in the hopes he hasn’t quite seen you yet. It’s only been a few months since you last saw him, but he already looks like he’s aged a few years. His normally slicked back brown hair is messy with strands out of place. He’s missing his jacket, instead dressed in a waistcoat and a red tie.

“Of course,” he says. “Something must be wrong with my watch.” Then he stops. A dreadful, _awful_ silence. “And who is this lovely lady?”

You bite down on your tongue so hard you taste blood, a bitterness sweeping across your taste buds.

“Iris Blake, sir,” says Silas.

“Her husband Harold is an oil baron come to take some land out West,” says Nathan.

Flynn places his hands on the back of both Silas’ and Nathan’s seats. “Oh? And where is this Harold Blake?”

“Out front having a smoke,” says Silas. “He’s actually been out there for quite a while now.”

“Perhaps I’ll have a word with him.”

Before he can get to the door you shoot up. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Lifting up your skirt to make moving faster, you rush in front of Flynn before he can go outside.

“Where are you going, Mrs. Blake?” he asks.

You drop the fake accent. “What do you want?”

“All this time I thought you were dead and you’re here playing _poker_?” He almost seems genuinely hurt. Maybe he is, in his own twisted way.

“If you let me leave I promise we can both move past this amicably.”

He laughs. “Oh, we are _far_ past amicably.”

You note the smell of alcohol on his breath. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Of fucking course I’ve been drinking. I thought my wife was _dead._ ”

“I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“I did. I still do.” He reaches up and moves to caress your cheek, but then thinks otherwise. “Please, come back to me. We can start over, I promise. I told you I can change and this time I truly will.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “How many times have I heard this before? How many times have I thought you could change only for you to go back on your word?”

“This time will be different. We’ll go back to the ranch, we’ll talk and work things out.”

“No. I won’t go back again.”

The door opens behind you and Arthur comes to your side.

“There something wrong, darling?”

Flynn’s face contorts into rage. “Van der Linde's boy?”

“Shit.”

Everything happens so fast after that. Flynn grabs hold of you and puts something cold against your temple. Arthur takes out his own gun and fires a shot that Flynn manages to dodge. He drags you out of the cabin, leaving Arthur stuck in the chaos.

“If you won’t come with me on your own, then I’ll make you,” he says.

“Let me go you bastard!” you cry out, pulling at his arm as he holds you in a headlock.

“Let her go.” It’s Charles’ calming voice.

Flynn turns you both around to face Charles and Hosea who have their guns up and ready to fire. Arthur finally stumbles out of the cabin and joins them.

“You’re outnumbered, son,” says Hosea.

“Hosea Matthews, right?” says Flynn. “I’m sure Silas will be happy to hear that the Van der Linde gang has infiltrated his poker night.”

“Just let her go,” says Arthur. “I ain’t gonna ask again.”

Flynn starts laughing like the lunatic he is. “What do you think happens if you kill me?”

“What d’you think will happen if you kill her?”

For a moment he deliberates his options, moving his gun between each of the three men until Trelawny suddenly bursts out of the cabin. In a panic Flynn shoots in his direction but thankfully misses. With the perfect distraction, he lets go of you and runs for his horse. Arthur, Hosea, and Charles all shoot in his direction, but he’s quickly out of sight, though hopefully with a new hole in him.

As for you, you drop to the ground out of shock, rubbing at your throat where he had been constricting your breathing. As you cough Arthur comes to your side and helps you up.

“I think it’s time we get out of here,” says Charles, climbing up to the reins.

As the angry rich men inside the cabin come out with their guns ready to fire, you all pile into the coach the best you can as Charles drives deep in the forest. The men aren’t willing to follow so you’re able to escape without much of a scratch behind the bullet holes in the coach.

Charles comes to a stop at the Aurora Basin and you’re the first one out, needing some fresh air. The corset makes it hard though, so you start struggling for breath.

“It’s alright,” says Charles, gently grabbing your arms. “You’re safe now.”

You take off that stupid hat and throw it into water, not caring how much you paid for it or how angry Mary-Beth, Karen, and Tilly will be that you lost it. You’re not cut out for a rancher’s wife or an oil baron’s wife. Maybe you’re just not cut out to be a wife at all.

“I say,” says Trelawny, “that went horribly wrong.”

“Did we get anything?” asks Arthur.

“I’m afraid not,” says Hosea.

You stop listening to them after that. Your first job and it went to shit all because of you. If you hadn’t been there, maybe they could’ve gotten away with it. Maybe they could’ve gotten in and out before Flynn arrived. Maybe they could’ve avoided his attention. But not you. And now that he knows who you’re with, he won’t stop until that camp is burned to the ground.

You stop next to the basin and sit down, dirtying your dress. It’s a rather ugly dress anyway. The most expensive clothes are always the ugliest ones. You can’t wait to just trash it, even if it’s a waste of money. Even if there’s a job you can help with, there’s not a chance in hell you’ll accept again. Not after this. Not after nearly getting killed by Flynn and being powerless to do anything. All those shooting lessons mean nothing when he’s got a gun to your head.

Arthur joins you shortly after, taking off his coat and placing it over your shoulders. You didn’t realize that the chill night air had been making you shiver.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Do you want the true answer or the one you want to hear?”

“The true one is the one I wanna hear.”

You pause, watching the breeze move the water. “I’m far from alright. You should all just go and leave me here. Maybe Flynn will find me and I spare you all his wrath.”

“Don’t talk like that. We ain’t leaving you here.”

“He’ll kill all of you to get to me. You don’t know him like do. He’s horribly unstable. One moment he’s sweet and caring, the next he’s violent and unpredictable.”

“And none of that’s your fault. No one could’ve known he was gonna be there.”

"Arthur, can we get a hand with this?" asks Hosea from the coach. 

He hesitates for a moment, glancing you way. 

"Better go help them," you say.

After another pause he gets up and heads back to the coach. The alone time, however brief, is greatly appreciated. Angry, hot tears burn and you furiously wipe them away with the back of your hand. Job's go wrong. You already knew that well. And maybe it still would've gone wrong without you. Now when you go back to camp Micah will find out what happened and his ego will be restored. He'll ridicule you just like Flynn. Men like them are self-centered, always out for themselves before anyone else. 

Charles appears at your side. “We’re gonna stay here for the night before heading back to camp.”

They try to convince you to sleep in the coach for extra warmth, but you refuse. If you’re going to live with outlaws, you need to start _living_ like outlaws. Instead a makeshift camp is made with Charles taking first watch while everyone else sleeps.

Your life as a city girl, a rancher’s wife, whatever you’ve been since you left – it’s over now. From this day forth, you’re a Van der Linde outlaw and Flynn Brooks better watch his back.


	5. from the artist with love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prayer circle that rockstar fixes red dead online's economy and gives us dlc
> 
> chapter warnings: mentions of abuse, drinking

_A job went bad as they inevitably do. We would’ve gotten away with quite the sum had it not been for Flynn Brooks. He has a mean hold on Y/N that she can’t quite seem to shake. I hope for her safety that we can break it._

* * *

In the morning Charles and Arthur drive the coach back to camp while you stay inside with Hosea and Trelawny. You stare out at the wilderness as the coach goes down the uncomfortably bumpy dirt road. Each of them have already told you that what happened wasn’t your fault but the guilt still weighs heavily on your shoulders. You’re supposed to be their doctor, not their cause of death.

When the coach rolls into camp many of the others are quick to run over. Hosea opens the door and steps out before helping you down. Trelawny follows as Arthur and Charles drop down.

“What the hell happened?” asks Bill eyeing the bullet holes.

“We were found out,” says Hosea.

“Is everyone okay?” asks Dutch.

“It’s quite the miracle, but not a single one of us has a scratch!” says Trelawny.

“And the money?” asks Micah. He glances at you. All the confidence you gained from beating him at poker dissolves into shame. You’ll never hear the end of this.

“It’s a long story,” says Hosea. “Flynn Brooks was there.”

Dutch gives a laugh and takes a drag off his cigar. “That coward of a boy?”

“Not so much a coward now.”

“Well, the man did run when he realized he was outnumbered,” says Arthur.

“Of course he did,” says Dutch. “He’s always been good at running.” He turns to you. “Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head but offer nothing else.

“It was a long night,” says Hosea. “Why don’t you go get some proper rest?”

You give him a nod, immensely grateful for the easy out. Arthur’s looking at you as you head for your tent and you feel his eyes on your back once you’re not longer facing him. Others are watching you, too. The girls eye your torn up, dirty dress but they leave you alone, thankfully. It’s all been a bit too much and you’d appreciate the alone time.

You change out of that ugly dress and back into your usual skirt and dress shirt. It’s much more comfortable and much more familiar. The thing is practically useless now so you take it the Upper Montana River and throw it into the water. You watch as the wind takes it away.

The guilt will fade eventually, you assume. No one died and like Trelawny pointed out, no one was hurt. You just have no way of knowing what the future consequences might hold. Flynn holds a mean grudge and he already hates Dutch quite a bit. You don’t doubt that he’ll eventually find the camp or at the very least take you away when someone isn’t looking. Even now, as you stand at the water by yourself, you get a prickly feeling on your back like someone is watching. It’s just your imagination, but it makes you glance over your shoulder just to be sure.

A little bit away you hear crying. There’s someone sitting on a log facing the river, bent over. Is it someone from camp? You can’t tell from this far away. In any case you head over and as you get closer you realize it’s Abigail.

“Are you alright, Abigail?” you ask.

She looks up so fast she nearly breaks her neck. Long trails of tears stain her cheeks. “Oh! I’m fine. It’s nothing.” She quickly starts wiping at her eyes as if she can still hide the evidence.

You take a step back. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding. It’s just…” She sighs and looks out over at the other side of the river. “John and I had a fight. It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

Since she hasn’t asked you to leave you take a chance and sit next to her. “My husband and I fought a lot.”

“He’s Flynn Brooks, right? I’ve heard about him.”

“I would assume most have.”

“Did it ever stop?”

You shake your head and play with a loose thread on your skirt. “No. But my husband is a much worse man than John Marston.”

She laughs dryly. “You’ve only known him for a month. I’ve known him for years.”

“True. But you don’t know my husband and trust me when I say John is an angel compared to him.”

“He must be pretty terrible.”

“Dreadful. I don’t want to kill anyone, but I wouldn’t be opposed to putting a bullet between his eyes.”

“Sometimes I feel like that about John.”

“I thought you two were in love.”

“We are…most of the time.” She shakes her head. “Or at least some of it. I don’t know anymore.”

“How do you feel right now?”

“Like I could strangle him. That man refuses to be a father, leaving me to do all the raising. I’m tired of it.”

“I can understand that. My husband wasn’t much of a father either.”

She perks up, brow furrowed. “Did you have children?”

“A son. He died.”

“I’m so sorry.” She places a comforting hand on your knee. 

“It’s a miserable feeling, isn’t it? And you know what I hate? As much as I loved him I used to wish he was never born. I wasn’t ready to have children, let alone with Flynn. And then after he was born I had so many new responsibilities that I didn’t want.”

“Motherhood is the hardest job in the world.”

“That we can agree on. But despite everything you still love the little bastards. If I could do it over again, I would give Timothy up. He didn’t deserve what happened to him and I wasn’t a good enough mother.”

“You loved him. That was enough.”

“I loved him, but I couldn’t save him. It was my job to protect him and I failed.” You sniff and give a short laugh to cut through the growing dark cloud over the both of you. “I’m sorry, this shouldn’t be about me.”

“No! It’s kinda nice talking about someone else’s problems. The girls – they’re sweet, but they don’t really get it.”

“Well, if you ever need to talk to someone my office is always open.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

From somewhere behind you, Dutch calls out your name.

“Oh, and Y/N?” says Abigail. You stop. “Thank you. For listening, I mean.”

“Anytime, Abigail.”

Dutch is leaning against a tree, arms crossed. The moment you get closer he moves away from it. “Hosea and Arthur told me everything that happened. Are you sure you’re okay?” He gently grabs your shoulders.

“I’m a bit shaken up, but he didn’t hurt me.”

“I assume you know our…history.”

As you talk he places a hand on your upper back and starts guiding you back to camp. “Just from what he’s told me. Dutch van der Linde stole all his father’s life savings and he’s wanted revenge ever since.”

“I apologize for getting you mixed up in the middle of this.”

“I was already in the middle. I only made it worse.”

“Nonsense. We may not have gotten the money from that job but Hosea said you’ve proven yourself a fine hustler.”

“I’m okay at it.”

He laughs. “Your humility is admirable.” As you reach the outskirts of the camp, he brings you to a stop. “But know this. I promise you that I will not let him hurt you again. As long as you are with us-” He gestures to the camp. “-you’re safe.”

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Of course I do. I worry about everyone here. I _love_ everyone here. We are family and now you’re one of us. Trust me.”

Your heart is bursting with warmth and you try to hold back the tears. It’s been so long since you’ve been with people who actually cared about you. Flynn might think he does in some strange, twisted way, but somehow Dutch has managed to show more concern for you in five minutes that Flynn did in a decade.

“Thank you,” you say. “That means a lot to me.”

He gives you a smile and walks off toward a small group toward the front of the camp. Trelawny climbs on top a horse while Dutch joins Arthur, Hosea, and Charles.

“Good luck in New York, Mr. Trelawny,” says Dutch.

Trelawny tips his hat. “Why thank you! I do hope I see you boys again.”

“You probably shouldn’t,” said Arthur.

“Probably not, but I won’t rule it out. Be safe, gentlemen.” He turns his horse and rides out of camp while Arthur gives a short wave.

You feel a bit lighter after your conversation with Abigail. It’s the first time you’ve spoken so candidly since you arrived in the camp and it felt good to get it all off your chest. It also helped that Abigail shared some of your experiences. She’s right – the others wouldn’t understand. The pain you carry is strange and complex. Some days it hurts more than others. At times you could just crawl up into a ball and cry for hours while at others you’re a fully functional human being. Those ups and downs are hard to explain to someone that hasn’t felt it too.

Arthur and Hosea ride out together, probably to look for some new scams. Javier, Sean, Bill, and Karen go out as a group. With so many people gone the camp becomes quiet save for the opera music coming from the gramophone in Dutch’s tent. It’s a bit too loud for your taste, so you take a book you’ve already read twice and head back to your usual spot in the trees.

As the sun starts setting, footsteps approach and your heart drops. You’re not too far from the camp, but you’re still by yourself and an easy target if silenced quickly. Your heart races as you close the book and prepare to use it as a weapon.

To your relief it’s only Abigail, a bright smile on her face.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” you reply. “Is there something you need?”

“I was actually hoping you might join me for some drinks in town. John’s going for a walk with Jack and it’s been ages since I had some good-natured fun.”

Drinking. It’s probably not the best idea. You didn’t drink much before moving southwest, but you didn’t have a single drop during your time with Flynn. Getting overly drunk is the last thing you want to do.

However, your paranoia almost made you attack poor, innocent Abigail with a book, so maybe some good-natured fun would be nice for you, too.

“I’m in,” you say.

You take the wagon into town, leaving it in an alleyway near the saloon. Inside you and Abigail have some beers and at a table.

“Thank you for coming with me,” says Abigail. “It’s been so boring in camp lately.”

“Is it always like this?”

“More or less. The women are just expected to wash and fix the clothes and whatever else Miss Grimshaw wants us to do.”

“Is there something you’d like to do?”

“I don’t know. Leave?”

“For good?”

“This ain’t the life to raise a child in.”

“At least you and John can be together. And there’s a bunch of other people looking out for Jack’s well-being.”

“I know. This just isn’t the life I want.” She shakes her head. “Let’s talk about something else. I’ve noticed Arthur’s taking a liking to you.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Not exactly. He’s just not the most…sociable person.”

“Well, I did save his life a week after meeting him. That can leave an impression on people.”

“It sure can.”

It isn’t long before you go from tipsy to drunk to…whatever stage comes next. You’re being horribly irresponsible, but once the euphoria hit there was no turning back.

Abigail isn’t as drunk as you, but she’s certainly quite inebriated. With the two of you starting to get rowdy with your talking and laughing, the bartender eventually escorts you out of the saloon and you start making your way back to the wagon.

“I probably shouldn’t drive,” you say, slurring your words.

Abigail stumbles into you as she tries to get ahead. “Then _I’ll_ drive.”

“You shouldn’t either!”

The world spins and you almost fall to the ground, saved only by leaning into the wall of a nearby building.

“Are you questioning my wagon driving skills?”

“And what if I am?”

“You two ladies having fun?”

You whip to the side so fast you hear something crack inside, but you’re too far gone to know where or if it even hurts. It’s Arthur and Hosea, the former trying to hide an amused smirk underneath his hat.

“We’re drunk!” you say as Abigail giggles and fails to climb up the wagon.

“We can see that,” says Arthur. “Cause any trouble?”

“Oh, Arthur,” says Abigail. “You always assume the worst!”

“It’s just that we happened to see you get kicked out of the saloon.”

“We weren’t ‘kicked out’ we were…” You pause. “I forgot.”

“I’ll take Miss Roberts back to camp,” says Hosea. “You alright here?”

“Yeah, we’ll be fine.”

Without warning Arthur starts guiding you away from Abigail and the wagon and toward his horse.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“I’m getting you home,” he says. “Safely.”

“But Abigail-” You turn around, but she and Hosea are already gone.

“She will be fine.” He brings you to a stop at his horse. “Let’s just worry about you.”

“But I’m not tired yet, Arthur.”

“Trust me, you will be.”

He helps you up and you nearly fall over from the dizziness. You keep your eyes closed as Arthur gets his feet in the stirrups and you wrap your arms around his middle to keep from falling over. He briefly clears his throat before heading back toward camp.

His body is nice and warm and you can easily imagine snuggling up next to him for the night. Maybe that’s just the alcohol talking. You don’t know anymore. There’s a small thought at the back of your head saying “I told you this was a bad idea” but you’re far too drunk to care.

As he takes you through the desert outside of Blackwater you open your eyes to see the world tilting at a nauseating angle.

“Arthur, the ground is spinning,” you say.

“That does tend to happen when you’re drunk.”

“I’ve made a huge mistake. Everything is so…ugh! Can we stop for a minute?”

He obliges. “Can you not make it back?”

“I can’t see straight.”

He sighs and you let go of him. You’re thankful he listened, but where is there to go? It’s just desert out here. You don’t say anything else as you slip down from the horse sit down in the dirt, but you’re still so dizzy that you just plop right over with a groan. Arthur stands over you, or really three of him.

“Everything okay?”

“Which one of you is asking?”

He lowers himself down, one leg bent up and one to the side. “I see they don’t teach you how to handle your liquor at fancy city schools.”

“Do you really think I went to some fancy school because I lived in New York?”

“Don’t know what I’m supposed to think about civilized folk.”

“Oh, please. We’re no different.” You turn your gaze to the night sky. “Bank robbers might use pens instead of guns but it’s all the same business. People adapt.”

“Well, you better adapt to alcohol fast if you’re gonna have any more wild nights.”

You scoff. “I’ve heard stories about you Arthur Morgan. Don’t act like you never got drunk and did something stupid.” You manage to get to your feet, Arthur’s hands out as if he expects you to fall. He keeps his distance though, even as you point an index finger at him. “You, Arthur, are a hypocrite.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is. Because you can get drunk and destroy saloons and beat up all the patrons but the moment I get a bit inebriated-”

“Don’t know if I’d say ‘a bit.’”

“-I’m suddenly a…where was I going with that?”

“We were going back to camp.”

“No! I feel so trapped there, Arthur.”

“No one’s making you stay.”

“Where else am I supposed to go? It’s my fault the job went bad.”

He pauses. “Is that what this is all about?”

“It’s not the _only_ thing. My husband is a _bastard._ He took everything from me! My home, my money, my pride. He even took my son.”

“Your…son?”

You’re far too focused on your own trauma to see what kind of reaction Arthur is having. “He was so young, Arthur! But he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Abigail doesn't understand what it’s like.”

There’s a bit of silence where you expect Arthur to start consoling you or maybe shepherd you back to his horse. Instead he gets up and rubs his chin before gripping his belt.

“I know what that’s like,” he says in a quiet voice.

“You what?”

“I know what it’s like to lose a child. It’s a pain that follows you.”

That’s certainly unexpected. Arthur is so far from the father type that it didn’t even cross your mind that he could’ve even had a child, let alone lose one. A million questions pop into your head. How old was his child? Who was the mother? Was it that Mary? Is that what drove them apart?

Hot tears build up in your eyes, a couple spilling out as you blink. “Arthur, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize-”

He waves his hand. “Don’t start crying, it ain’t that big of a deal.”

“Your child died! It’s a massive deal and it makes me sad!”

“It was a long time ago. Come on, now.” His voice is softer than his words as he carefully approaches you. He wraps his arms around you and quickly return the hug, burying your face in his chest.

“I’m so drunk,” you say.

He laughs, his chest vibrating. “That you are.”

“Maybe we should go home.”

“Maybe we should.”

You’ve pretty much passed out by the time you get back to camp. Arthur escorts you to your tent and you plop down on the cot, instantly falling asleep the moment your head hits the ground.

Of course by the time you wake up your head is _pounding_ and a wave of nausea rocks through your stomach. The smell of Pearson’s stew only makes it worse so you hold your breath as you scramble to your feet and head into the nearby trees. Thankfully you’re able to control yourself, but now your heart is racing and you’re a bit clammy.

You lean against a tree and take a deep breath. Most of your memories of the previous night turn into a blurry mess after the first couple of drinks.

And then there was Arthur, your knight in shining armor. Sort of. How many times has he had to rescue you now? The store, the failed job, now this. It’s getting ridiculous – you’re _better_ than this. You might not be a seasoned outlaw yet, but others in the camp aren’t this useless.

Still a bit too embarrassed to go back yet, you head down to the river and sit on the downturned log. It’s a beautiful day. In the morning the weather isn’t too hot yet. It gives you a moment of clarity.

First things first: no more nights in the saloon. Or at least no alcohol unless you’ve got someone to make sure you don’t go too far.

Second…you’re not so sure. Your head is still throbbing so you lean your elbows on your thighs and let your face rest in the palm of your hands.

“Rough night?” You’d recognize Arthur’s deep voice anywhere.

“Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t starting nothing.”

You hear him get closer until he sits down next to you.

“I feel like I repeatedly hit my head into a wall.”

“You might have. I didn’t see everything.”

“I’m happy to hear you take joy in my suffering.”

“Never said I did.”

You sigh and remove your hands from your face. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been more responsible.”

“You got nothing to be sorry for. Do you have any idea how many bar fights Sean has gotten into alone?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s a lot.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” There’s a beat of silence. “Did you really have a son?”

He takes out a cigarette and lights it. “You remember that, huh?”

“Bits and pieces. I just have a hard time imagining you as a father.”

“Yeah, me neither.” He blows out some smoke and you stifle a cough.

“Life is…odd.” You watch as he takes another drag. He looks tired like he didn’t get much sleep after you passed out. You’ll have to find some way to make it up for him later. “Would it surprise you if I said I didn’t want to be a doctor?”

He drops the cigarette to the ground and puts it out with his boot. “Maybe a little.”

“My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps and be a progressive woman. I would say what’s more progressive than choosing to do what I want? But I knew how much his practice meant to him. What did you want to be when you were a kid?”

“I don’t know.”

You place a hand on his arm and then pull away, afraid you overstepped a boundary. “Oh, come on. You can’t have always been a rough outlaw on the run. Everyone was a kid once.”

“I was more worried about my father getting me killed.”

“Fine. I won’t pry.” You cross your arms. “Have you ever read _The Yellow Wallpaper_?”

“I ain’t much of a reader.”

“Well, it’s this story about a woman who is locked away in an old nursery to treat her insanity. But the isolation drives her to madness and she starts seeing a woman in the wallpaper. Or maybe it’s just her reflection. It’s a beautifully haunting. Flynn would often keep me locked up in the house so that my eyes and…other parts…didn’t wander. When I read the story it was like looking in a mirror. So I started writing my own stories here and there. They were mostly inspired by whatever was happening at the ranch. But then Flynn eventually found out about it. A woman who reads is threatening because she can start think for herself but a woman who writes? She can form her own identity.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“Oh, it is. The only thing more terrifying is a woman who can read, write, _and_ shoot a gun.”

He gives a deep laugh. “Flynn Brooks is shaking in his boots.”

“I sure hope so. When I see him again, and I will, I won’t be his human shield again.”

The water continues to move by, time slowly passing. You imagine Arthur will likely be off again, scouting out more jobs for more money. If there’s anything you’ve learned about the group since joining, it’s that they always need more money. There’s even a stash hidden away that Dutch wants to use to go to California and be ranchers or something. You can’t imagine that for anyone here. Once an outlaw, always an outlaw you suppose.

“I should probably get back,” you say getting to your feet.

“Yep.” He doesn’t move as you start walking away. “An artist,” he says.

You stop and turn around. “What?”

He keeps his eyes to the ground, sounding almost bashful. “I wanted to be an artist and…draw or something. I don’t know. My momma always said God gave me a gift. Don’t know if I believe that.”

A smile creeps across your lips and you sit back down on the log, your back to the water. “So Arthur Morgan _was_ a kid once.”

“Don’t go getting any wrong ideas.”

You raise your hands. “Oh, no, sir. The only Arthur I know is a rough around the edges criminal who’d rather beat a man than draw him.

“Damn right.”

“Though I suppose being an artist in, say, Saint Denis sounds like a lucrative business. Makes one wonder why someone would choose a life of crime instead.”

“Could say the same thing about a writer.”

“If only there was some way an artist and a writer could work together.”

“I don’t know. Sounds like they’re from two very different worlds.”

“Well, if a city slicker such as myself can get along with a country outlaw like you, I’m sure they could find a way to work it out.”

“Weren’t you heading back to camp?’

“I believe I was.” You paused before getting up. “Be safe, Arthur.”

* * *

A couple of days later you get back to camp from running a few errands to find a gift at your tent. It’s a journal, empty except for the first page. You run your fingers over the handwriting, admiring the beautiful curves of the letters.

_From the artist to the writer. Enjoy._


	6. cochinay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finished the game for the third time in the past month and it still hurts babes!

_My Lord, remind me to never let Y/N get drunk. I felt far more like an animal wrangler trying to calm her down and get her back home. Though I will admit that spending time with a highly inebriated Y/N is far more pleasurable than being with most of these fools._

* * *

Writing in the journal quickly becomes easy. You start out by making up little stories based on the members of the group. Mary-Beth is a con artist that using her sweet, innocent nature to seduce men and steal everything they have. John is a man out for revenge after learning the value of family once it’s too late. Uncle is a wise old man that reluctantly helps a young sorcerer on his journey.

And then there’s Arthur. A bad man who knows he’s bad and uses that badness to start doing good things.

It’s all a bit ridiculous, you suppose, and you’d absolutely die if anyone read it. Yet it’s still nice to get your hand working again, even if it starts cramping. You haven’t gotten the proper chance to thank Arthur for the gift with him and Hosea often out looking for more scams. He also goes out with Bill and Javier for a job and the three come back unscathed, though a bit shaken up after getting shot at.

New Year’s comes along so fast that you barely even realize it until there’s a crates of beer being prepared and some decorations being put up. You’ve started losing track of time in the camp with each day seemingly blending into the next. You normally stay in camp, save for when you go into town for errands which you can do so confidently with a rifle strapped to your back.

When night falls the celebration begins. You avoid the alcohol, though, and so does Abigail. It’s probably for the best. Until you build up a tolerance you’re not about to go drinking the same way Karen does most nights. You’re not even sure how she manages to stay upright.

Dutch comes to the front of his tent, drink in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. Everyone gathers around like he's a preacher giving a sermon. “We are one year away from the turn of the century. Civilization is expanding, sending its disease across this good country to the west. But our days are not numbered. Together we are stronger than them, than the American government, than anyone who looks to strip us of our freedoms.” He makes a fist in the air. “And together we will stay alive. Have faith.”

Karen and Uncle, both greatly inebriated, start cheering in response.

“But for now we drink. We love. And we get the money that is owed to us.”

The group starts clapping and shouting. You join in, happy just to be surrounded by happy people, even if many of them are already on their second and third bottles of whiskey.

At the campfire Pearson tells an exaggerated story of his time in the navy. No one seems to believe him, but no one says anything either. It’s actually rather fun. Others tell stories too. Hosea tells a story about his late wife, Bessie, and you can see the sadness lingering in his eyes. But it’s a bittersweet sadness as he laughs along with everyone else.

Abigail takes Jack to bed shortly after. At some point Sean and Davey get into a drunken fight and knock the other out at the same time. It’s a problem you’ll be dealing with in the morning, you’re sure.

By the end most of gone to bed or off drinking themselves to near death. It’s just you, Bill, Javier, and John at the fire. Your eyes are sore, making it hard to blink. You bid farewell to them and start heading toward your cot.

As you pass by Arthur’s wagon you notice him on his cot sketching something in his journal. Abigail is right that he’s not the most sociable, but it stills seems awfully lonely over there. Then again, maybe he _wants_ to be left alone. He did share some drinks and sing a song with Uncle, Susan, Karen, and Sean. But then he quickly retreated and you hadn’t seen him since.

While Javier starts up another tune on his guitar, you quietly leave the group and head over to Arthur where it’s much quieter and peaceful, though the sounds of drunken laughter still make their way over. He doesn’t notice you at first, lost in whatever he’s doing.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating with everyone else?” you ask. For some reason your heart starts pounding and your palms slicken with sweat. What’s got you so nervous?

He shakes his head and briefly looks up at you. “I’ve celebrated quite enough tonight.”

“How long does this usually go on?”

“Partying? Until morning.”

“I guess I won’t be getting much sleep.”

He shrugs. “Could always go rent a room in Blackwater.”

“I’m not that desperate.”

“Suit yourself.”

You chew on your lip. Now's as good a time as any. “I want to thank you for the journal. That was sweet of you.”

“Yeah, well, I know how much it’s helped me.”

You laugh a little and he frowns.

“What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. It’s just kind of funny how you’re all tough and rough but you doodle like an insecure artist from France.”

“I ain’t nothing like a Frenchman.”

“Oh, I’m sure. What kind of things do you draw?”

“What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. I’m only curious.”

“Well, would you like if I asked what you’ve been writing about?”

“I suppose not. If I told you, would you let me see?”

“Fine, just look.”

He rather aggressively hands over the journal but keeps his eyes on John, Bill, and Javier as if he’s too embarrassed to know you’re there, looking at his handiwork.

It’s a sketch of the group circled around the campfire. You spot the Marstons together, Hosea next to Dutch. There’s the girls and the Callander boys. It’s everyone together save for Arthur, the artist leaving himself out of his own work.

And then, of course, there’s you. You’re at the center, your eyes immediately drawn to where a penned version of you sits laughing at something you don’t know, immortalized forever in his journal. For some reason this catches you off guard. You don’t know much about art, but you know the center is important. It’s the focal point of a piece and only the most meaningful part goes there.

He probably doesn’t mean it like that, though. When you think about it, it’s about where you were sitting when the celebration began so if anything it’s just an accurate depiction of the gang in a moment of peace. Still, it makes your stomach do a strange roll. You hand the journal back to him and smile.

“Your mother was right,” you say. “You do have a gift.”

He laughs. “You don’t have to be nice.”

“I’m not being nice, I’m being truthful. If it makes you feel better you can read one of my stories. I think you might like the one about a rat faced bastard in a white hat getting his comeuppance.”

“I ain’t much of a reader, but you do have my interest.”

“I’ll give it to you in the morning. I’m exhausted and I’m sure I’ll have my hands full tomorrow.” You get up and pause. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

He tips his hat. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

* * *

The morning isn’t fun for anyone. While you’re not hungover, most of the camp is. Sean plops himself down in the middle of camp and refuses to move. Karen is moody, snapping at anyone that even just smiles at her. Uncle isn’t any different, though. He’s either drunk or hungover every moment of every day.

You provide some remedies to help with headaches and nausea and don’t get nearly the amount of credit you deserve. Some people thank you, like Mary-Beth, Tilly, and Jenny whose sweet dispositions didn’t fade with alcohol. Abigail offers some assistance when you can’t get the unruly Callander boys to even get out of bed and when it doesn’t work you get an irritated Susan to do it instead. You’re certain she’s loud enough that everyone in Blackwater woke up to her screeching.

Arthur’s gone early in the morning. You haven’t forgotten about your casual deal, but you’re certainly regretting it. Was getting to see a sliver of Arthur’s work worth it? Maybe. You’ve never shared your own writing with anyone save for a few children’s stories you wrote specifically for Timothy. You don’t know what Arthur will think, but you suppose you won’t know unless you try.

When things have settled down you copy down the story onto some pages you tear out of the journal. There’s no way you’re risking Arthur reading more than you allow. He _should_ like the story. It’s about two brothers, one with bad behavior and bad intentions and the other with bad behavior and good intentions. They have a falling out over their jealousy for one another, resulting in them both killing each other. Of course the good brother wins in the end, even if it means sacrificing himself. It’s all very Wild West.

Once you’ve finished you place the papers at Arthur’s wagon, using a pack of cigarettes as a paper weight. You’ve turned into a bit of a coward yourself, too afraid to hand them over in person, even if it risks someone finding them. God forbid that person is Micah.

As you’re walking away, Dutch catches up with you.

“I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve been doing for us,” he says, taking a drag off a cigar.

“It’s not that difficult,” you say. “I’ve dealt with worse, believe me.”

“Well, for a group like this it means everything.”

“I’m glad I can help.”

You keep going, only stopping when Dutch speaks again.

“Y/N, why don’t you go on a ride with me?”

This catches you off guard. Over the past month you’ve spoken with Dutch here and there, but he’s never asked for time alone with you. “Of course.” As if you have any other choice. Dutch is the leader, the patriarch. He’s like everyone’s father, in a way. But he’s also like a boss.

“Excellent.” He starts heading toward his tent. “And wear something warm.”

* * *

Abigail lets you borrow a warm coat that you store on Star’s back as you follow Dutch out of the camp and to the northwest where the mountains of Cochinay look over the southern half of West Elizabeth.

“How have you been adjusting to this life?” he asks from his horse.

You speed up a bit so you can match his pace. “It’s been…interesting to say the least.”

He laughs. “Interesting. I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

“It’s a lot different, too. Up north is a lot more…”

“Civilized.” He says it like the word personally offended him.  

When you start going up the mountains you put on the coat, Dutch taking out his own. It quickly gets cold as you reach the snow covered ground, making it hard to believe this place is so close to the desert. Where Blackwater is warm and dry, up here it’s cold and wet. There’s snow everywhere and it crunches beneath Star’s hooves.

Dutch brings the Count to a stop and you follow suit.

“We should probably go on foot from here,” he says. “It gets a bit steep.

“How much farther?” you ask.

“Not far,” he says. When you finally do arrive at the cliff’s edge he stops and places his hands on his hips. “Isn’t it beautiful up here?”

It’s alright, you suppose. You’ve lived a life in the city and in the desert and you’re not sure which one you hate and which one you love. But you do know that the cold is painfully biting at your exposed skin and you’re shivering even under your coat.

“I suppose it is,” you say.

He starts walking away until he finds a log he uses as a seat. After he pats the space next to him you sit down and pull your coat up closer, curling up a bit to keep in the warmth.

“I like to come up here sometimes,” he says. “Helps me clear my head.”

“The cold certainly keeps me thinking straight. I always hated the snow, though, pretty as it was.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Now, tell me honestly,” he says. “How are things going for you?”

You frown. “What do you mean ‘honestly?’”

“Arthur tells me you’ve been feeling guilty over happened at Tanner’s Reach.”

There’s a chill toward Arthur that runs through you. He had no place telling Dutch anything you were feeling and it makes you wonder if you shouldn’t have left that story there for him to read. He struggled to let you see his work, but he goes and tells someone feelings you confided in him?  

“I didn’t know my feelings were a topic of discussion.” Your tone is as cold as the air. 

Dutch picks up on it right away, raising his hands in surrender. “He’s only concerned.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.”

“Of course not.” He nods. “I apologize.”

You put up a hand. “It’s – it’s fine.”

Another silence falls over both of you as you start steaming enough that the cold doesn’t bite so hard.

“What happened there weren’t your fault,” Dutch continues.

You’d much rather this discussion get dropped. It happened, you failed, that’s the end of it. By bringing it up over and over again it’s impossible to move forward. The guilt doesn’t weigh as heavily as it did before, but it hasn’t gone away.

“Everyone keeps telling me that,” you say bitterly.

“Then maybe that means it’s the truth.”

“I just don’t want to put this group in any unnecessary danger. My husband is…he’s a bad man.”

“Well, we’re bad men, too. And the greatest enemy of a bad man is another bad man he’s slighted. I don’t know much about Flynn, but I do have a history with his father.”

“That I know. He tells stories about the vicious Dutch van der Linde and how he stole the entire inheritance.”

 “I do happen to recall an incident like that. That was…” He looks up. “That had to be over twenty years ago.”

“The way he talks about it you’d think it happened yesterday. He can hold quite the grudge.”

“So can I.” He leans forward, elbows on his thighs and his fists under his chin. “So can I.”

“I really am sorry for what happened.”

He snaps out of whatever train of thought he went into and leans back, gently grasping your shoulder.

“Nothing that happened was your fault. If anything, _I_ am sorry you were put in that position. We should’ve been able to keep you safe. I promise you, Y/N, that as long as you are with us, no harm will come to from _Flynn Brooks_.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“You can trust me. I’m not a politician.”

A small, amused smile curls your lips. “I imagine and outlaw like you must have a particular distaste for the government.”

He almost shudders at the thought. “And to think that _we_ are considered murders and liars and thieves.”

“My father hated the government, too. In fact, you kind of remind me of him.”

This gets his interest. “Tell me about him.”

“There’s not much to tell, I guess. His father died before he was born and his mother abandoned him. He was raised by a French woman. After she died of pneumonia he devoted his life to medicine. Ironically that’s what he ended up dying from himself.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. My father died, too. Fighting the South.”

“Noble cause.”

“It sure was. And your mother?”

“Died in childbirth. My father always described her as a modern woman. He wanted me to be like her.”

“You must have loved him very much.”

“Most days. Sometimes he could be a stubborn old bastard and I wanted nothing but to get away from him. I thought about running away a few times, but I never went through with it. I couldn’t give him that heartache.”

“Oh, believe me, he would’ve welcomed you back with open arms.”

You’re not too sure about that and now you’ll never know.

It’s actually nice, talking with Dutch. He’s a good listener and always knows exactly what to say. You can see why so many people are willing to follow him to the ends of the earth. 

* * *

 

By the time you return to camp the anger you were feeling toward Arthur has subsided mostly. You’re still irritated and now unwilling to have any more deep conversations with him, but you know he had good intentions. Didn’t make it right, of course. But this is a group of outlaws. Right and wrong aren’t so easily defined here.

Of course, the proper thing to do is confront him and tell him the feelings you share with him are meant to only be with him, but you’ve never been the confrontational type. Instead it’s probably best to just sweep this under the rug and be careful in the future.

The sun is just setting as you hitch your horse and thank Dutch for a nice day out. Arthur isn’t at his wagon, but the pages are gone, hopefully with him. There’s a sudden nervousness that pours down your spine like cold water. What if he hates it? What if he _loves_ it? What if he doesn’t care one way or the other? And most important of all, what does it matter? You’re just repaying him for letting you see his work. Not a big deal.

You sit down at the campfire with your journal and start writing about a man who loves his family so much that he’d do anything for them – even kill in cold blood. Uncle is half-passed out nearby, coming to every so often to take a drink and then fall into an uneasy slumber.

Suddenly your pages drop down onto your journal in the middle of you writing a word. A flash of irritation goes as quickly as it came until you see Arthur sit down on a crate next to you. The little smile on his lips makes all the previous anger go away.

“Didn’t know we had the next Evelyn Miller among us.”

You’re speechless. For one thing, you had no idea someone like Arthur would know who Evelyn Miller is and secondly, he doesn’t seem to be teasing you. Instead he’s…proud? Maybe? You’re not quite sure.

“Oh!” you say, still a bit shocked. “That’s very kind of you.”

He leans closer, enough so that his breath washes over the exposed skin of your throat. Goosebumps raise on your arms.

“And I quite like the part where not-Micah gets a bullet in his head.”

Your voice is awful quiet when you respond. “I had a feeling you might.”

A peaceful silence falls save for Uncle’s snoring. Arthur kicks him awake. He mutters something unintelligible as he gets to his feet and drunkenly wanders away.

“So, do you have any New Year’s resolutions?” you ask, hoping to spark a conversation. 

Arthur thinks for a moment. “Read more.” He gets up and starts heading over to his wagon. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You smile to yourself, heat blossoming over your cheeks. “Goodnight, Arthur.”


	7. banking coach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays y'all!
> 
> chapter warnings: violence

_To my surprise I’ve ended up enjoying my time with Y/N. I spend so much time surrounded by fools like Micah and Bill and John that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be with someone who isn't one._

* * *

“I see you haven’t contributed in a week, Mrs. Brooks.”

You flinch at both Susan’s tone and the name. Most of the group calls you by your first name now at your request, or at the very least put a “miss” in front of it. But for some reason Susan insists on calling you Mrs. Brooks and it’s starting to grate on you.

“I’ve been a bit busy keeping everyone alive,” you remark as you help Pearson unload crates of canned food he and Lenny just brought in.

“And we thank you for it, but we all need to eat.”

“Then go hunting.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Are you being smart with me?”

Your instinct is to snap at her, but instead you take a breath and count to three. “No, Miss Grimshaw. I’ll put some money in soon, I promise.”

She nods. “I’ll be holding you to that.”

The girls come over and start helping, save for Abigail who is off with Jack. She looks over every now and then like she’d rather be with you all than with a little boy.

“She’s so awful, ain’t she?” says Karen, throwing a glare at Susan’s back.

“I really would prefer to see the best in people, but she reminds me of an old teacher,” you say. “She used to hit our hands with sticks as punishment.”

“At least we don’t have that,” says Tilly.

“Don’t give her any ideas,” says Mary-Beth with a hint of fear.

“Cut her some slack, ladies,” says Pearson. “This place wouldn’t run without her.”

“I think we’d be fine,” says Jenny.

“Yeah, we’d actually be able to what we want instead of doing the laundry,” says Karen. “I’m tired of washing your socks, Mr. Pearson.”

“Someone has to do it,” he says. He picks up a crate and goes to the other side of the wagon.

“ _Someone has to do it,_ ” says Karen mockingly.

“He’s right,” says Mary-Beth. “Without all of us this camp would fall apart.”

“You can’t tell me there’s nothing else you’d rather do,” you say.

“Well…I do like writing.”

“Small world! So do I.”

“Really? I’m sure yours is much better than mine.”

“Don’t talk like that. I’m sure you’re a great writer.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. My head is just full of the most glamorous vocabulary, but then the moment I pick up a pen it’s just all gone.”

“Then you just need some inspiration.”

She thinks for a moment. “Maybe I do.”

When the unpacking is finished Pearson organizes everything the way he wants it and people start swiping cans for their travels. Micah grabs more than his share, explaining it away by saying he’d be gone robbing some rich folk up north and be out for a few days. Pearson is clearly too frightened of Micah to say otherwise.

“And what happens if you don’t get anything?” you ask as you’re walking past.

“Don’t be such a pessimist, new blood. Maybe you should come robbing with me and I can show you how it’s done.” He stands like he thinks he’s some sort of alpha male, back straight with legs far apart. He doesn’t scare you, though. A man like Micah is mostly talk and even if he’s as crazy as everyone says, he’s not dumb enough to hurt you right in the middle of camp.

“That’s kind of you, but I’d rather just go back to my husband.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing!” he calls you to you as you walk away.

At least he’s trying to make money, you guess. You’re not like the women in the way they wash and sew and you’re not like the men in the way they rob and kill. You’re somewhere in the middle, keeping them alive so that they can take lives themselves. It’s a complicated situation you haven’t quite reconciled with yet.

With there being time since the botched poker job the guilt is starting to fade. If anything, you’ve now got something to prove. You’ve helped Arthur and Hosea with a few small scams that didn’t amount to much money, but it’s better than nothing. But unlike the others you’ve never handed over leads of your own or lied your way to into vulnerable men’s hearts. But you are still married to a shady, rich rancher and you _did_ make Susan a promise.

You find Arthur chopping wood, his jacket discarded at his wagon and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. He’s missing the vest, too. His exposed skin is covered in a sheen of sweat making him look glossy in the sunlight.

“Arthur, can I talk to you quick?” you ask.

He sets down the ax and wipes his arm over his brow, pushing up his hat in the process. “Something wrong?”

“No, kind of the opposite. There’s this banking coach that goes through a pass north of Armadillo once a week.”

“Is there good money on it?”

“I assume so, but it’s a lead, right?”

He drops the ax and takes a step closer to you. “Since when are you getting leads?”

“Miss Grimshaw.”

He nods. “Ah. We’ll look into it.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

“What did you expect us to do?”

“I don’t know, go rob it?”

“It ain’t that easy. We need a plan.”

“Then we’ll go stake it out. That’s the word, right? You and me.” You gestured between the both of you and he watches your hands. “Or maybe you and someone else. It’s up to you.”

He takes a moment to think before nodding. “Armadillo, you said?”

“Yes. It stops at the saloon. Someone is always there to meet it, every Friday.”

“Alright. Let’s go then.”

“Wait, you’re taking me?”

“Who else would I take?”

“Someone more competent.”

“Believe me, I trust you more than most of these fools, even if you can’t shoot as well as them. Now let’s go before it gets dark.”

“Thank you, Arthur. This means a lot.”

“I’m always in when there’s money.”

“Of course you are.”

You set out almost immediately. To make the ride easier you change into more horse appropriate clothes, leaving your skirt for pants. It’s like being back in New York, riding horses for pleasure. The idea of robbing the coach puts you on edge, but you don’t have to worry about that right now.

Arthur packs supplies for the both of you. Food, ammunition, water. He gives you a rifle that you sling over your shoulder. He holds his with such ease that it looks more like an accessory. For you its heavy and drags you down, so you resort to placing it in your saddle.

Star certainly seems happy to be taken farther out of camp as you pass by Blackwater and into the hot desert of the west.

Arthur is clearly in his element the farther west you go, his mood brightening as the temperature rises.

“Aren’t you sweating off a layer of skin?” you jest as you ride next to him.

He laughs. “You ain’t used to this?”

“I’m used to it, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Would you prefer to be up in the Grizzlies?”

“God no. Just give me a cabin in the woods and I’d be good.”

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind.”

You spend the evening riding, stopping after dark to make camp in Hannigan’s Stead, just past the MacFarlane ranch. Arthur shows you how to make a fire and you’re starting to feel like you’re indebted to him the way he was with you not so long ago. He’s bought you a horse and a journal, taught you how to shoot a gun and now how to make a fire. It’s already far more than Flynn ever did for you. Somehow Arthur Morgan has become more of a husband to you than your actual husband.

With the supplies you’ve brought along hunting isn’t necessary, something you’re thankful for. Maybe one day you’ll have the stomach for it, but that day is not today. You’ve already seen the way Pearson skins animals like it’s a sport, and that’s if they haven’t been brought in skinned already.

You eat out of a can of peaches with a spoon. It’s not the fanciest meal you’ve had, but it’s not the worst. You spend a lot more time hungry these days than not, but Jack is given the most before anyone. That’s something you can live with.

In front of you is the fire, the only thing that allows you to see the dark night. The horses are tied up not too far away while Arthur sets up a nice tent. He hasn’t said who will be sleeping in it and you haven’t asked. You’re not sure if sleeping side by side would be good or bad. When he finishes he plops down at the fire. 

“Don’t you ever find it hard to sleep out in the woods?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Not really. It’s pretty much where I’ve always slept.”

“Not to sound too much like a city girl, but I miss having a bed and an actual bedroom.”

“Definitely sounds like a city girl to me.”

“Well, I guess you can take the girl out of the city but not the city out of the girl.”

“Maybe we’ll make an outlaw out of you yet.”

“If I stay long enough you will. People can change pretty easily if that’s what it means to survive.”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “You said its north of town?”

You nod. “There’s a pass that the coach rides through. It’s pretty deserted from what I know.”

“Security?”

“Probably whatever is normal for a banking coach. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve never robbed a coach before.”

He looks away, staring at the fire as a small smile curls on his lips. “Well, color me surprised.”

“I’m just that good of an actor, aren’t I?”

He gives a deep laugh. “I’ll say.”

“In all honesty, though, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Follow my lead and we’ll be fine.”

He’s pretty confident and it rubs off on you. It’s probably best to not worry so much about the robbery until it’s actually time to break the law. It isn’t like this is the first time you’ve done something dubious, but it’s the first time you’ll be holding someone up at gunpoint. Something uncomfortable swirls in the pit of your stomach.

“How long have you been doing this?” you ask.

“Robbing coaches?”

“Robbing…anything. Anyone.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. A couple of decades at least.”

You choke on the canned peaches and he gives you a concerned look. “That’s a long time! Don’t you ever get bored of doing the same thing all the time?”

“If you mean surviving, then no.”

“Stop me if someone has told you this before, but have none of you considered that you might make money doing legal work?”

“And here I thought the only way to make a living was by robbing innocent folk of everything they own.”

“I just mean that you all have skills and there’s work out there for honest people.”

“It ain’t just about work or money.”

“Then what’s it about? Dutch’s philosophy?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Do you even care about it?”

“I care about keeping everyone alive and safe and free.”

You keep quiet now, mulling over what he said. You’ve heard all about Dutch’s belief in freedom from the constraints of civilization and while it sounds pretty, you’re not quite sure you’re on board yet. Living in a city your whole life hasn’t killed you and probably never would. It certainly beats having to steal and murder to stay alive, flaws and all.

“I guess Dutch might have a point about the whole freedom thing,” you finally say. “Up north is…it isn’t all bad. There’s better technology, you don’t have to live on a farm in the heat praying that crops don’t die out. It’s certainly more progressive. But it can also be stifling.”

“I’d rather die than live in a city.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. There’s far more wealth, bigger banks, more opportunities. I’m surprised you settled for a place like Blackwater instead of Saint Denis.”

“We won’t be here forever.” He rubs his chin. “Which way is your ranch?”

“My _husband’s_ ranch. And it’s that way.” You point to the west where it sits in Cholla Springs, near Twin Rocks. “He’s pretty much ran off everyone else. The only ones left are the MacFarlane's, I think. Maybe a few smaller farms here and there.”

“He bought them out?”

“Stole from them. Took their buyers and sellers. He’s a businessman so he took ranching and made it a business. He only leaves a few to have competitors. It’s all a game to him.”

You glance at Arthur and notice how much younger he looks with the flickering flames reflecting on his face. He also looks distant, like he’s thinking about something else. You’re friends…or something. But you’re not close enough to pick his brain for whatever seems to have taken him away.

You insist on guarding your small campsite for a while that night. You’d hate to be robbed or killed while sleeping. By sunrise you and Arthur set off again. The coach goes by around noon so that gives you both enough time to get to the pass and set up for an ambush.

By the time you reach the pass it’s close to noon. You stop above it on the cliff edge, looking down.

“Alright, this won’t be too bad,” says Arthur. “Probably should’ve brought more people, but I’m sure we can handle it.”

Now that it’s almost time to go through with the plan your tail is between your legs. There’s a real chance either you or Arthur could get shot or even killed all for some money. You’re not sure there’s any difference between the perspiration from stress and from heat.

“We can always go back and try another time,” you say a little too quick.

To your disappointment he shakes his head. “We’ll be fine. If Micah or Sean get word of it we won’t have a choice but to bring them along.” He gestures toward the edge with his repeater. “You stay up here and keep your gun on the driver. Don’t let your guard down for a second and don’t show fear neither. Act like you’ve done this a hundred times before.”

You let out a breath. “Acting. I can do that. Maybe.”

If he notices your rising anxiety he doesn’t mention it. “I’ll go down there.” He points into the pass. “Once they’re stopped, keep your gun on them. I’ll take what they’ve got and we’ll leave. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. This won’t be too bad, just relax. Wait for my signal.”

“What’s the signal?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

He pats your shoulder and heads for his horse. The sound of hooves fade as he rides down into the pass, leaving you alone. You trust Arthur, or at least trust him the most you can. He’s an outlaw, after all. But so far he’s been kind to you and gone out of his way to help you, so this can’t go too bad, can it?

When he appears down below he pulls his black bandanna over his face and gestures for you to the same. It’s stuffy and hot with the cloth on your face and you’re not quite sure how it hides your identity enough.

After a bit of waiting the coach finally approaches. You’re still not sure what the signal is. You hide behind a decent sized rock as you wait.

Down below Arthur jumps out from his hiding spot and aims his revolvers at the driver and the passenger.

“Stop the coach and put your hands up!”

 _That must be the signal_ , you think. You pop up and aim your rifle at the two men. The passenger sees you first, putting up his arms as the driver appears unconvinced.

“What do you think you’re doing, boy?” he says. He’s older with gray hair and a stout physique.

“I’m taking everything you’ve got,” says Arthur.

It’s like watching a stranger in the way he threatens the men, his voice deep and intimidating and his body language aggressive. This isn’t the Arthur you know.

“Mr. Engel, let’s just hand it over,” says the younger man in a shaky voice, gesturing toward you.

Engel looks up at you and scowls. He puts up his hands and the two of them jump down from the coach.

“Good choice, fellers,” says Arthur. “Now don’t try anything you’ll regret.”

You keep your sighs trained on them while Arthur breaks into the coach and disappears from your line of sight. It’s up to you alone, now, but you don’t have that same faith he does. Sweat plasters your hair to your skin and your hands shake as you hold the rifle. Hopefully you’re too far away for them to see.

Finally Arthur emerges from the coach with a heavy bag. But just as he climbs out, the driver lunges forward and attacks him. They go down on the other side of the coach where, had someone else been along, a gunman could’ve stopped the fight. But from where you stood they were out of view and a drop into the pass would probably sprain your ankle if not break your leg. A shot goes off and the passenger drops to the ground covering his head.

“Come out!” you call, invigorated by a rush of adrenaline.

Slowly Arthur comes out, blood splattered on his shirt. There’s a shadow cast on the other side of the coach that doesn’t move.

“You killed him!” cries the passenger. He gets to his feet, his knees repeatedly giving out. “I’ll get the law on you!”

“You think that’s a good idea, boy?” says Arthur, his voice low and dangerous.

“They’ll have you hanged!”

Before you can protest he throws his fist into the side of the man’s face, knocking him to the ground. Cold dread pours down your spine and you sling the rifle around you before heading down into the pass on Star’s back.

By the time you get down there the man is a bloody mess, his face bruised and beaten. Arthur holds him by the collar of his shirt as he prepares to punch him one more time.

“Stop!” you yell, halting Star and nearly falling off as you hurriedly dismount.

Either Arthur didn’t hear you or he’s ignoring you. Another hit in the face and the man falls back to the ground, coughing up blood. For the briefest moment it’s like watching Flynn take out his jealousy on a man who had the audacity to compliment you. You’re back in the role of the rancher’s wife, unable to do anything to stop him.

“You still thinking about telling the law on us?” asks Arthur.

“Of course not, sir!” the man chokes out. “I never would, sir!”

“Good. Now get lost.”

The man struggles to get up, crying and nursing his wounds.

“I said _get lost_!”

He finally gets up and runs back to the now empty coach, glancing briefly at the dead driver. He pulls on the reins and rides off in a hurry.

Arthur is completely unfazed. He wipes off the man’s blood from his knuckles onto his pants like it’s spilled water. It only enrages you further, a mixture of disgust and horror making you curl your fingers into fists at your sides.

“What the hell was that?” you ask through clenched teeth.

“I stopped him from turning us in,” he says, heading toward his horse. “He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.”

“You beat the shit out of him! He could still die from his wounds!”

“Would you rather have the law come down on us? Find the camp? We’d all hang!”

“You don’t have to beat every man that you deem a threat.”

“Why? Because of your morals?”

“At least I have some! You’re no better than my husband.”

He really turns on you then, making himself taller and bigger. He even uses the same intimidating tone he just robbed the coach with. “I ain’t nothing like Flynn Brooks.”

“Oh, really? Because I’ve seen him beat a dozen men just for having the audacity of existing near me. You’re no different than him – you hurt people, you steal from people, you kill people.”

“It’s different and you know it.”

“How is it different?”

“I don’t go after innocents.”

“Then who in the hell did you just try to kill?” He opens his mouth and you point a finger at him. “And don’t you dare say it’s because he works for the government.”

“And what did you want me to do? Let him go to the sheriff? Our faces would be all over New Austin.”

“This was _my_ lead, Arthur.”

“And you ain’t got any experience. You’re just a goddamn city girl who don’t know what it’s like to be hunted down.”

“You choose that! Every time you commit a crime you choose for that to happen!”

“If you don’t want the law on you, then what the hell are you doing with a gang of outlaws?”

This is him, isn’t it? The real him. He’d been hiding it under a veneer of kindness or maybe it was just a matter of time before something like this happened. You wet your lips, glancing over at the body of the driver whose blood pools around him. Dead because you brought an outlaw to him. It’s on you as much as it is on him.

“You’re right,” you say quietly. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” He doesn’t say anything as you mount Star. “Goodbye, Arthur. Give the others my regards.”

You don’t wait for a response as you ride away. Your heart is still racing from both the anger and the hurt. Your eyes sting from the tears you refuse to shed.

You’ll be leaving everything you own behind, even if it isn’t much. Maybe that’s just what you need.

A fresh start.


	8. the fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you all had a nice holiday season! thank you all so much for the support!!! it means the world to me!
> 
> just as a side note, this story isn't going to line up 100% with the game in terms of timeline and some continuity. i still find it hard to believe that the game takes place over, like, one or two months anyway lol

_Y/N left. Maybe it’s for the best, yet I can’t help but feel shame thinking about it. I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell the others. I know I ain’t a good man, but it was nice, for once, to have someone think I wasn’t. I am a goddamn fool._

* * *

Arthur returns to camp alone and it’s rather noticeable. The girls watch him, craning their necks to watch for you to follow, but you never come. For all he knows you never will.

“Where’s Y/N?” asks Abigail, rushing up to him.

He doesn’t answer. Either it’ll be a lie or the truth and neither one is preferable. He walks past her to Dutch’s tent where he’s sitting on the edge of his bed reading a book.

“Ah, you’re back,” he says without looking up. Next to him Molly is staring at herself in her pocket mirror.

“I am.”

Finally Dutch tears his eyes away from the page and frowns. He looks around Arthur and glances at the horses. “And where is Y/N?” he asks.

“She left.”

“Left?” Dutch closes the book and places it on the side table before getting to his feet. “What do you mean left?”

Arthur is tall – taller than most in the gang. It helps to make him intimidating whether he’s robbing banks or collecting debts. But Dutch is taller. It’s just by a little and sometimes Arthur has to tip his head up a bit, but Dutch has this way about him that turns him into a giant. It’s been like this as long as Arthur can remember. He holds himself up high, his jaw set and a slight frown dipping the corners of his lips.

“She left the group, maybe the state.” Arthur gives a shrug, glancing down at the floor. “I don’t know.”

“Was she conning us?”

“No, nothing like that.”

There’s a pause where Dutch leans in and lowers his voice. “Son, what aren’t you telling me?”

The whole thing is going to sound ridiculous once he says it out loud. In fact, he probably already looks like a pathetic sop the way he’s moping. He’s not even sure why he is. Shame? He’s not immune to it, but he already knows what kind of man he is. Guilt? His actions were morally wrong, yes, but it’s nothing new. It’s no surprise that you would run off once you saw what kind of man he is. But then why does it feel so bad?

“We got into an…argument,” says Arthur. “About morals, I guess.”

Dutch speaks slowly. “You got into an argument and she decided to leave?”

“It’s for the best, Dutch. She ain’t one of us.”

“Look around us, son.” He takes Arthur’s shoulder and leads him out of the tent. “We are not all the same. Some of us are murderers, some of us thieves. Some of us are lost and have nowhere else to call home. Does she fit any of those?”

Arthur frowns. “What is this about?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“It ain’t nothing. People come and go, it’s been like that a long time. She don’t have the stomach for the things we gotta do to survive.”

“Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. We don’t know. But what I _do_ know is that you ain’t a fool, Arthur. So quit acting like one.”

With that he retreats back into his tent, saying something flirtatious to Molly. It takes everything in Arthur not to gag.

Dutch doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He wasn’t there. He didn’t see the look on your face. The horror and betrayal, like you had been stabbed in the back. What were you expecting? Sometimes robberies go wrong. Sometimes people die. It’s the way of life out here.

He tells himself this over and over again. But there’s just…something. Something he likes about you. He can’t quite put a finger on what it is. Maybe it’s that you don’t take bullshit from people like Uncle or Micah. Maybe it’s that you work with young Jack. Maybe it’s that you’ve brought out a smile in Abigail’s face for the first time in what feels like forever. A smile he’s going to have to rip off judging by the way she’s approaching him as he heads back to his wagon.

“Arthur, at least tell me she ain’t dead,” she says.

“She’s alive.”

She lets out a breath and closes her eyes for a brief moment. “Thank God. Where is she?”

“She left and she ain’t coming back.” It hurts to have to break her heart like this. John’s been a poor husband, a poor father. He has no idea how lucky he has it, to have a woman who loves him a nice kid who has a future ahead of him. It makes Arthur’s blood curl when he thinks about how much John has but is completely willing to throw away.

“What?” says Abigail.

“I said what I said.”

She opens her mouth to speak but then closes it. There’s a sadness in her eyes as she looks down at the ground.

“I’m sorry, Abigail,” says Arthur softly. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

The sadness is suddenly gone, replaced by a fire that’s normally directed toward John.

“All you men is the same,” she jabs before storming off, leaving Arthur completely bewildered.

* * *

Several days go by and there’s no word of you, no sign. But it’s not like you just disappeared. Your stuff is still there next to your cot that no one has bothered to move. Abigail won’t talk to him and the girls all seem pissed. Even Dutch is upset, though Arthur isn’t quite sure at what.

At the end of the day, it isn’t his fault you were scared by the real him. If anything it’s better that you saw early on and not years down the road.

And yet…it bothers him. Deeply. There are times he’s forgotten you took off and wants to go tell you something, but then he remembers what happened and something painful constricts in his chest. It’s not that he doesn’t have friends…right? There’s still Hosea and Lenny and Charles. But is that it? And for some reason it’s just different with them. With you talking is easy and later on he regrets opening up the way he did. His life isn’t your business, but it just…slips out.

After a week Mary-Beth gets a tip about some wealthy businessman staying in Strawberry. It’s too far up north for Arthur’s taste, but the camp and Blackwater are getting stale. He takes the job before Micah can and heads out.

He’d already been feeling a bit under the weather, so it comes as no big surprise that he starts getting lightheaded shortly after leaving. A cough comes on fast and so does a fever. But he’s had worse, he can power through it. But by the time he reaches Strawberry it’s chilly and raining and he’s a sweaty, clammy mess.

He hitches Boadicea outside the post office where he intends to start his search. The way the rain is slanted as it pours makes it hit him right in the face. His clothes don’t fair much better, completely soaked through. A chill cuts deep to his bones.

Before he can get inside he needs to take a break, the world spinning around him. He doesn’t have time for this, but he also can’t go letting himself pass out. It isn’t easy to rob someone like him, but it isn’t that hard if he’s unconscious. He leans against a railing and catches his breath.

“Arthur?”

It’s your voice, but you can’t be here. What are the chances? It’s probably in his head. Some kind of delusion. Is that the right word? He doesn’t know. You would, though.

He turns to see you holding an umbrella over your head, brow furrowed. He says your name softly, like he can’t believe you’re here. He _can’t_ believe you’re here. If you’re as smart as you seem, you should’ve been out of the state already, but you’re here in Strawberry of all places.

You’ve changed your clothes, leaving behind the riding pants for a skirt and a scarf draped over your shoulders. The rain has made you a bit damp, but you’re dry for the most part.

“You look terrible,” you say.

Hearing your voice makes his heart twist in weird ways. He coughs. “Well, I look better than I am.”

Your eyes soften and you gently pull on his arm. “Come on, let’s get you somewhere warm.”

“No, I’m fine.” He shakes you off. “I don’t wanna burden you.”

“I’m taking you somewhere warm. You’re not getting a choice.”

He doesn’t fight as you nearly drag him into Strawberry’s visitor center. After you escort him into a room upstairs you strip off his jacket and remove his hat, dropping both on the ground.

“Your clothes are cold and wet,” you say. “Do you have anything dry?”

“Boadicea,” he replies.

You nod. “I’ll go get it. Don’t go anywhere.”

He doesn’t get a chance to argue otherwise before you leave the room. With a heavy sigh he takes a seat at the end of the bed, his back slouched with exhaustion. Using up the little energy he has left, he slips off his boots and discards his belt and holster onto the nightstand.

It’s horribly silent throughout the room as he waits. His eyes scan over the table where a single chair is pulled out and the journal he gave you sits open. It’s tempting to go over and take a glance, but he restrains himself. Hanging off the back of the chair is a satchel and the rifle you used in the coach robbery.

You soon return with fresh clothes that you hand over to him. “Dry and change into this. I need to go pick up some stuff from the store.”

“You don’t need to do that,” he manages to get out before coughing, his throat burning.

There’s a look of pity that flashes over your face. “I think I do.”

You leave again with your satchel this time and he changes with difficulty, his clothes so wet that he has to practically peel them off like a layer of skin. There’s a towel left out that he uses to dry off his damp skin before pulling on pants and a white shirt. He leaves the rest of it in a folded up pile on the dresser, far too fatigued to bother putting on anything else.

Had he been more coherent he would be terribly embarrassed to be so vulnerable in front of you, but at this point he doesn’t care. He just wants to sleep for the next two days.

Once you come back you lock the door and place your satchel on the table. From there you pull out a canteen.

“I thought you was leaving,” says Arthur.

 “I was,” you say, your back to him. “I’m supposed to meet a stage driver in an hour.”

“Then go.”

“I had no idea you wanted me gone so bad.”

“That’s not-” He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You return to him with the canteen. “Drink this. You need to stay hydrated.”

He does what he’s told, pouring the room temperature water down his irritated throat. It’s better than nothing.

“You should go,” he says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

You take the canteen when he hands it to you and place it on the nightstand. “Not when you’re like this.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse.”

“I don’t doubt that, but I can’t in good conscience leave you when you’re sick.”

“Then you’re more of a fool than I thought.”

You give a short laugh and take a seat at the table. “Maybe I am.” There’s a short pause where you cross and uncross your legs while wringing your hands. “How is everyone?” Your voice is quiet.

“Fine, I guess. Half the camp is pretending I don’t exist.”

He immediately regrets his choice of words when your face falls, brow furrowed.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s my own fault.”

“No it’s-” You stop yourself with a sigh. “Get some rest. You need it.”

Sleep is far too tempting, so he lays down with his head on the pillow, one leg out straight and the other bent. “And what about you?”

“I’m going to make you something for your cough. The store didn’t have everything I need, but I’ll manage.”

“You still have time to take the coach.”

“Go to sleep, Arthur.”

And so he does.

* * *

 

When he comes to he’s groggy, but a little better. His face is still warm and his throat sore, but his heart is more relaxed. He pulls his pocket watch out of his satchel to see it’s just past five in the morning.

You’re sleeping uncomfortably in the chair nearby, an open book on your lap. He doesn’t know whether to wake you or not. There’s a bottle of something on the table, presumably the medicine you said you’d make. It gives him a weird feeling in his chest.

Nevertheless he’s feeling a bit better and it’s probably for the best if he leaves before you wake up. He attempts to quietly put on the rest of his clothes all while running out of breath as exhaustion takes over again. With each creak of the floorboards he keeps glancing over at your sleeping figure. If he had the time he would’ve loved to have drawn you. It’s not like he hasn’t before.

Just as he tries to wrap his belt around his waist he’s unable to stifle a cough. His heart drops as you wake, rubbing your eyes and yawning.

“Arthur?” you say, your voice raspy with sleep.

“Yeah, it’s just me.” He continues getting ready anyway. It would’ve been easier to slip out unnoticed but the plan hasn’t changed.

“What are you doing?” you ask as you start waking up more. “Wait, I made you cough syrup.”

He pauses as you get up and grab the bottle off the table. Your eyelids are a bit droopy as you hand it to him and you rub at your eyes again.

“That’s kind of you, but I best be on my way,” he says, stashing the bottle in his satchel.

“What? You’re too sick.”

“I’m fine.”

You move to feel his forehead and he tries to dodge your reach, but a stern look makes him stop. Your fingers are cold against his skin and goosebumps rise on the back of his neck.

“You’ve still got a fever _and_ a cough. If you get back to camp without passing out you’ll just spread it to everyone. Staying here a couple days isn’t going to kill you.”

He hates to admit it, but you’ve got a point. Jack picks up everything, Hosea’s already dying – he just can’t stand the idea of being cooped up in a hotel room with you for days without knowing what to say.

With a sigh he sits down on the edge of the bed and drinks the cough syrup you made. It’s sticky going down, but it numbs his throat enough that the pain subsides.

“Good choice,” you say. “It’s a bit early for breakfast but I can get you some coffee if you’d like.”

He shakes his head. “No, you’ve done enough for me.”

“I’m just doing my job.”

He gives a humorless laugh. “You said you were leaving.”

“That was before you showed up.”

This shuts him up, somewhat stunned. He can’t fathom that, even after what happened, you’d forego your plans just to help him.

You take the empty bottle from him and place it back on the table with a _clink_. “I’ll make you some more later.” When he doesn’t answer you glance at him. “What?”

“What?” he says.

“Is there something wrong?”

He quickly realizes he had been staring. Clearing his throat, he shrugs his shoulders. “Nothing.”

“Alright, I suppose we should address the elephant in the room.” You sit down next to him, the bed dipping slightly. “I don’t – I feel-” You stop yourself before taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

He blinks, taken aback. He turns to face you. “ _You’re_ sorry?”

“Of course I am.” You get up and start pacing in front of him, wringing your hands. “The way I reacted, what I said – it was uncalled for. I was acting on emotion and impulse instead of thinking clearly. That’s my fault and for that I’m truly sorry.”

He’s speechless. Is it normal up north to apologize for things that aren’t your fault? It wasn’t like you had deeply offended him, only spiked his blood pressure. Once he had calmed down he realized what a fool he’d been to let you come with him. It should’ve been him or someone who’s been on robberies before. You’ve been with the group close to two months now. For a gunman it would be easy, but for someone still so inexperienced as you – it was a dumb decision.

“You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for,” he manages to say.

“Yes, I do. I know what kind of person you are. You’re an outlaw, a thief, a murderer. I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”

That only makes him feel worse.

“I just – have you ever experienced something that’s changed you? Like you can sort your life into two halves. A before and after. They’re more like two separate lives lived by two separate people. But that moment that changed you…it haunts you. You see things that aren’t really there. Or sometimes you see something and it’s like you’re back in that moment.” You meet his eyes, your own glistening. “Have you ever felt something like that?”

He nods, thinking of all the people he’s killed, innocent and guilty alike. He remembers seeing those crosses, knowing that his life could go back to the way it was before, but not really. “Yeah, I have.”

“Then you can understand why I reacted the way I did. I’ve seen Flynn Brooks beat too many men and when I saw you, I saw him. It scared me so I just…ran away.”

“I would have, too.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. You don’t run from your problems.”

“And what would you rather do? Run toward them?”

“I’d rather face them. He’s controlled so much of me for so long that I’m not quite sure how much of me is left anymore.”

You start wringing your hands again and out of instinct he places one of his own on yours stop calm them. After a few seconds he quickly pulls away, but you do stop playing with them.

Your voice is quiet when you speak again. “You’ve been such a good friend to me, Arthur. I’ve felt so terrible since we parted. The only reason I’ve survived the past week alone is because of everything you taught me. That’s something Flynn would’ve never done. You’re nothing like him.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Trust me. You’re not perfect, but you’re not a monster. I can see that clear as day.”

He doesn’t say anything. He’s not really sure _what_ to say.

“Besides, I will admit that I’ve missed your company.”

This makes him laugh. “You have poor taste in company.”

“That’s still up for debate.”

There’s a beat of silence where he tries to choose his next words carefully. “For the record I’m…I’m sorry, too. For snapping like I did.”

“It’s all good, Arthur. Water under the bridge.”

“You shouldn’t forgive people so easily.”

“Believe me. I don’t forgive easily.”

“Well, good.”

With the problem out of the way, he initially thinks that maybe the strange, awkward tension floating between the both of you would disappear. Instead it’s thickened as a silence falls.

“Why are you up here anyway?” you ask and he breathes out in relief. “I thought you all wanted to go west, not north.”

“Got a lead. Probably gone by now.”

“When we get back I can explain so Micah doesn’t give you a hard time.”

This catches him off guard. “We?”

“Of course.” You get to your feet. “Unless you don’t want me to-”

He puts up his hands. “No, I think I’ve proven enough that we need you.”

A small smile curls the corners of your lips. “Well, it’s nice to be needed.”

“I think Abigail will be a lot more tolerable if you come back.”

“Tolerable? She’s lovely all the time, Arthur.”

“You haven’t known her as long as I have.”

“Well, maybe you haven’t gotten to know her as well as I have.” You return to your satchel. “Now that’s enough, get some more rest.”

“I’ll be-”

“I said get some more rest. I need to pick up some more things and you better be here when I come back.”

He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

He rests some more and by the time he wakes up he’s starving. It’s still raining out so you keep him in the room and bring him some food that isn’t just canned.

“The hotel has a nice little restaurant inside,” you say, sharing a meal on the bed with him. It’s small and not that warm, but it sure beats Pearson’s stew.

“How long you been staying here?”

You swallow and wipe the corner of your mouth off on your sleeve. It’s something he hasn’t seen you do before, always preferring to use a napkin or something other than your clothes. It makes him smile a bit.

“A couple of days. I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do. I thought of heading back up north, but there’s nothing for me there and without my father I don’t have any connections. I suppose, if it comes down to it, I’d prefer to be down here than up there.”

“So we’ve been turning you wild, then.”

You smile into the bite you take. “Don’t get your hopes up. Just because I carry a gun now doesn’t mean anything.”

He takes a breath, his heart picking up the pace as he prepares to steer the conversation into something more serious. “Thank you, by the way. For everything you’ve been doing.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“I mean it.”

You pause, still chewing. You swallow before answering. “You’re welcome, Arthur. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two so you can take care of yourself next time.”

He gives a laugh. “I sure as hell hope there won’t be a next time.”

“There’s _always_ a next time. Living with so many people like that, you’re bound to have a disease go through every few months.”

After finishing you take the dishes back and Arthur rests some more at your request. By the next day he’s already got much of his strength back, but you refuse to let him go back just yet. To prove why you both go out on a short ride where Arthur tires quickly and he reluctantly agrees.

He does, however, manage to get out and move about town. After a couple of days he’s nearly back to how he was before, thanks to your care and the medicine you’ve been making. He’s certain that the coach you were ready to take is long gone and that you’re serious about coming back.

On the final day you treat him to a nice, hot meal at the hotel’s restaurant. You sit at the window where you continually glance out at the people moving by while he stuffs his face like he’s never eaten before.

There’s some commotion nearby that gets his attention and that’s when he sees it.

“That’s him,” he says, nodding his head toward a man with a bald spot arguing with a waiter.

“Who?” you ask.

“The man I came here to rob.”

“Mr. Johnson? He’s staying in a room upstairs.”

“Is he now?”

The corners of your lips curl. “Yes, he is. It would be such a shame if someone went over and knocked the plate out of his hands. It might just give a thief enough time to head up and rob him blind. Anyway, I’ll be right back.” You wink at him and he does his best to stifle a laugh, a smile stretching across his face.

He stays to watch for a bit. You maneuver your way through room until you reach Johnson. Just as he turns you bump into him so that the plate he’d been carrying knocks to the floor.

“Oh, sir, I am _so_ sorry.” Your voice is loud and exaggerated. As you and Mr. Johnson try to pick up the mess, you turn and wink at him.

“Atta girl,” says Arthur.

It doesn’t take him long to find the right room and the money Mary-Beth talked about. There has to be a few hundred here. He stuffs it in his satchel before meeting you downstairs.

“Everything good?” you ask.

“Just dandy,” he says, patting his now heavy satchel.

“Nicely done, cowboy.” You glance back toward the employees. “Now we should probably leave before he catches on.”

* * *

The ride back to camp is peaceful, even when it’s silent. He’s feeling much better now, even if his nose is still a bit stuffed up.

When you break through the trees to where the camp is hidden in plain sight, he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He hitches Boadicea while you hitch Star. The others are so preoccupied with what they’re doing and ignoring Arthur that they don’t see you.

“All of my stuff is still here?” you ask, staring at your spot in disbelief.

“I guess everyone thought you were still coming back,” he says.

You frown. “That just makes me feel awful.”

“It’ll pass.”

“Thank you for your wisdom, Mr. Morgan.”

You walk side by side as you head toward you cot. “Hey, at least I ain’t making you pay me.”

There’s a chorus of your name from the girls and they run to greet you, nearly pushing him out of the way. It doesn’t matter, he supposes. It’s making you happy, a giant smile from ear to ear. Abigail takes your arm and they start leading you away. Before you’re out of sight you throw him one last look, your lips forming the words “Thank you.”

He can’t think of a single thing to thank him for. All you’ve done for the past few days is take care of him when he couldn’t take care of himself. Once again he owes you his life, something he can never ever truly repay.

Out of the corner of his eye Dutch slinks into view. “See, Arthur?” he says, hitting Arthur’s back affectionately. “I told you. You ain’t a fool.”


	9. at the end of the pier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD i swear i wanted to get this out earlier but i've been job searching and working on my original stuff plus over the weekend tumblr terminated my blog without warning or explanation and im still waiting to hear back. so yeah. its been interesting i guess. thanks for sticking around everyone!

_That girl saved my life. Again. I assume she will only continue to do so._

* * *

 

A few days after coming back it’s like you never left. It’s easy to fall right back into a routine you didn’t even realize you had.

Every morning you retrieve Swanson from where he’s wandered off to. Most of the time it’s in the woods where he’s either panicked or passed out. You escort him back to camp.

With you back, Bill gets into less fights with the other gang members. You’re there to de-escalate the situation before he starts name calling and fist fighting.

Arthur begins staying up with you at the campfire even when the others have gone to sleep. He doesn’t say much, instead thoughtfully listening to you as you ramble about whatever topic you decide on. One night you tell him all about a snowstorm that left you and your father stranded for days, on another you describe in detail how a limb gets amputated.

Of course the girls ask you about everything, At the end of the day they want to know what Arthur said and did to make you run off like that. You don’t tell them everything, just that you got spooked by something out of his control.

Save for Abigail, of course. The first moment you get alone with her you tell her everything. Every detail, every feeling. That is, feelings you understand.

Taking care of Arthur was instinctual. You did the same for your father and for his patients. You know how to treat colds and infections and other ailments. But there’s still something…weird about helping Arthur the way you did. His vulnerability was out in the open for you to see, like you’d opened up a wound to peer inside or he’d stripped naked. Not that you think about him naked at all. Of course you don’t. He’s your _friend._

Jack, most days, ends up with a small injury. He doesn’t have much in the way of toys so he ends up playing with the largest stick he can find. This results in splinters and cuts that you take care of as he sits up on the table. When he gets a particularly nasty cut on his knee you wipe away the little tears on his cheek.

“Does it hurt?” you ask him.

He nods.

“Do you know what makes it feel a lot better?”

“What?”

“A kiss!” You leave a maternal kiss over the bandages wrapped around his knee. “How does that feel?”

A small smile crosses his lips. “A little better.”

“Maybe your momma can give you some more, how does that sound?”

He nods and you help him down from the table before he goes off to find Abigail.

“You working hard or hardly working?”

It’s Micah, coming to a stop across the table from you. The man is damn near impossible to read. Some days he condescending calls you his chosen nickname of “new blood” while other days he wants to be friendly. Or at least you _think_ he’s being friendly. You know men like him and friendly is just a precursor to nasty once he realizes your body isn’t open for business.

“What’s it to you?” you ask defensively, cleaning up the bandages you used to clean Jack’s wound.

“Well, I got a good lead and I need a lady to come help me with it.”

“I’m busy.”

“Don’t look so busy.” He notices when you glance around camp looking for Arthur. “Oh, come on. Can’t a man talk to a beautiful woman without her looking for someone to rescue her?”

“Go ask one of the other girls for help. I’m sure they’d love to leave camp.”

He speaks in a low, deep voice. “I ain’t interested in the other girls.”

The way he sounds sends a chill down your spine. At this point you’d rather be speaking with Flynn.

Your rescue doesn’t come in the form of Arthur – it’s Abigail with Jack right behind her. When he sees Micah he hides from view a bit, holding onto the bottom of Abigail’s skirt with his tiny hands.

“Y/N, you mind helping me with something?” she asks. “It’s important.”

“Of course,” you say.

You quickly hurry to follow her as she takes you back to the tent where she and Jack sleep. You’ve always wondered why she doesn’t sleep in the same tent as John, especially when calling hers a tent is a bit too generous. But it’s not your place to pry, especially since Abigail hasn’t spoken much about John since the day you found her crying at the river. It’s only bits here and there, like how he’s going to get himself killed one of these days.

“I owe you my life, Abigail,” you say when she pulls a crate over for you to sit down on.

She laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She follows suit and Jack gets on the ground, absently pulling grass out of the dirt.

“I don’t know what he wants from me.”

“He wants what all men want. Can’t tell you how many times he’s been close to putting a gun to my head, telling me how John don’t treat me right.”

The blood drains from your face. “Excuse me, he’s been close to doing what?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s serious. Have you told Dutch?”

“What good will that do?”

“Maybe he’ll kick Micah out. Or kill him.”

“Dutch sees something in Micah that the rest of us are clearly blind to.” She shakes her head. “Thanks for helping Jack, by the way. I would’ve taken care of it but…” She motions to the clothes that need to be washed and both your gazes go to where Grimshaw is currently laying into Mary-Beth for reading.

“It’s my pleasure,” you say. “Jack is a good kid.”

“I know. I’m real lucky.” Her tone is so dry that it’s left even you parched.

“You know, if you want I can take Jack out for a while.”

Her eyes light up. “Would you?”

“Of course! I can go pick some flowers with him, teach him a bit about nature.”

“That would be great. Wouldn’t it be, Jack?”

“Sure,” he says, sitting up. He isn’t particularly excited, but at least he isn’t saying no.

You take Jack to your horse and help him up once you’re already mounted. He’s quiet as you get Star into a trot, taking Jack to some trees not too far from camp. When you spot a patch of flowers you bring her to a stop and help him down.

“Do you like flowers, Jack?” you ask, taking his hand and leading him to the patch.

“Yeah,” he says.

“What’s your favorite kind?”

“I don’t know.”

You frown. Normally Jack is much more receptive and talkative. You hope his cut doesn’t have complications already.

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m fine, Aunt Y/N.”

Aunt. That’s new. Despite his low mood, his words warm your heart.

“Well, if you want to talk, I’m here to listen.”

You stop at the flowers and get down on your knees so you’re at his height. You touch the purple flowers sprouting from the stem.

“Do you know what this one is called, Jack?”

“No, what’s it called?”

“Hummingbird sage. You put this in a stew and it gives you an energy boost. You think we should take it back to camp?”

“Yeah!”

“Alright. Now pull it out by the roots. Can you do that?”

He nods and you help him dig some of the dirt away. Once the roots are showing, you demonstrate how to properly pull the plant out of the ground without breaking it. Before it’s completely out, you have Jack take your place. He tugs on it a bit and after adding some of your strength, it comes right out of the ground.

“I did it!” Jack exclaims. He’s got a bright smile on his face as he touches the loose petals falling to the ground.

“Well done! Let’s put this in Star’s saddle.”

You lift him up so that he can do it himself. After the sage he gets into it, asking about the different flowers that he finds in the woods. You tell him the name of each, asking him to repeat them back so he can say it correctly.

He’s a sweet kid, Jack. Somehow that only makes you sad. A sweet kid, but all by himself. He has an entire gang of adults ready to kill for him, you’re sure, but a kid can’t be friends with adults. You wish you’d known the group back when Timothy was alive – the two of them would’ve been good friends.

By the time you get back Jack is all smiles again and excitedly shows Abigail all the plants you picked together. He doesn’t remember any of the names and the ones he can he doesn’t pronounce properly, but you’re just happy he’s back to normal.

Unfortunately, Micah hasn’t left and is currently lurking around your cot as if waiting for you.

“Oh, for the love of-” You spot Arthur this time, just coming back with Javier and Sean.

“You both don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Sean. “My da-”

Both Arthur and Javier groan in exasperation. The moment Arthur spots you, though, his face lights up, though his brow furrows, probably because of the speed you’re approaching him.

“Hey, let’s go for a ride until Micah passes out or something,” you say.

“Is that bastard bothering you?” says Sean.

“Please do not try to beat him up again,” you tell him before turning back to Arthur. “Though the honest answer is yes.” You put up a finger as Arthur opens his mouth. “And don’t try to say that you’ll talk to him. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

He puts up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Mount up.”

“I’ll distract him for a bit,” says Javier.

“You don’t need to do that,” you say, going toward Star.

“Believe me, it isn’t that hard.”

Over your shoulder you see Javier stop Micah’s search for you by what looks like starting an argument. You make a note to pay him back later.

“So,” says Arthur as you start riding out of camp. “Got anywhere in mind?”

“No, I just needed to get away. He’s been annoying me ever since I came back.”

“He does have a special talent in annoying people.”

You take the lead, going into town as Arthur follows closely. At the general store you get Jack a new toy you hope he (and Abigail) will appreciate. As you’ve begun doing, you check out the places where wanted posters usually hung to see if Flynn is trying to box you in. You’re certainly surprised he hasn’t made a bigger deal out of your “disappearance,” especially since he’d be able to play the concerned husband. Or maybe he’s trying to save his reputation, knowing that whoever finds you would likely hear about everything he’s done.

You find Arthur waiting for you outside, petting your horse. He has a way with them, so calm and compassionate. It wouldn’t come as a surprise to you if Arthur cares more about the horses than he does the gang.

“Find what you were looking for?” he asks.

“Yes, I did.” You slip the toy out of your satchel to show him and then place it back inside.

“Didn’t know you enjoyed children’s entertainment.”

“Oh, _ha ha._ It’s for Jack, smartass. He seemed down today.”

“Can’t blame him.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s got the world’s dumbest man for father.”

You frown. “Does John not spend any time with him?”

“John don’t spend _no_ time with him.”

“Doesn’t that upset you? I mean, even with all the regrets and shame filled hindsight, I’d give anything to have my son back.”

“Of course it upsets me.”

You take the Star’s reins and start strolling down the street, Arthur following you with Boadicea. “The way Abigail talks about him – or at least when she does – he sounds like a real shitty husband.”

He gives a hearty laugh, his smile sweet and genuine. It makes your chest constrict and you look away.

“I think that’s the first time I heard you curse like that.”

“What, you don’t think a lady can curse?”

“I never said that. Just took me by surprise is all.”

“I know you think I’m some uptight city slicker, but I know how to let loose.”

“You made that very clear when you and Abigail went drinking.”

“Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Never.”

You come to a stop at the end of the street and look in the direction of camp. “I can’t go back yet. If Micah sees me…”

“Come on, I’ll take you somewhere for a while.”

“You know-” You pause as you mount up. “-I was always taught that you never let an outlaw get you alone.”

“That’s good advice. Why ain’t you following it?”

“Guess I’m not as smart as I thought I am.”

“Believe me, you are the smartest person I know.” You smile, your cheeks heating up. “It’s the common sense you lack.”

“Shut up.” You keep your tone playful, leaning over to smack his arm. “You know what? I challenge you to a race.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I do. Last one to Quaker’s Cove buys a meal of the winner’s choice.”

“Alright, you’re on, Miss Uptight City Sllicker.”

* * *

You’re laughing, cheeks hurting as you smile grows as big as it physically can. “I would like to thank my father for teaching me how to ride and I would like to thank Arthur Morgan for his lack of riding skills.”

Arthur slowly dismounts, having come in second. It was close, but you plan on holding this over his head for a while. “Be careful, if your head gets any bigger it might explode.”

“My head is perfectly fine, thank you. You’re the one who underestimated me.”

“Or maybe I let you win.”

“Oh, you let me win? Is that a sign of a do-over?”

“I don’t know, I’d hate to see you fall from that high of a pedestal.”

You plop down on the edge of the pier, legs hanging over the water. It moves in small, calming waves. Arthur soon joins you, swinging his legs as he leans forward with his elbows on his thighs. You've brought a rifle with you just in case.

“Why does Dutch even keep Micah around?” you ask.

“He…sees something in him, I guess.”

“My eyesight must be worse than I thought. I suppose he saw something in me, too.”

“Dutch saw, well…”

“Saw what?”

Arthur opens his mouth and closes it. In his eyes you can see him mulling over his words as you wait patiently, the suspense killing you.

“Dutch likes pretty girls,” he finally says.

This takes you by surprise, especially since Arthur can’t even look at you while saying it. He even goes as far as to obscure his face with the edge of his hat as he looks elsewhere.

“You think I’m pretty?” you ask quietly.

“I never said that.”

“So you think I’m ugly?”

“I never – I’m just saying that Dutch has always had a soft spot for women he finds attractive.”

“So _Dutch_ thinks I’m pretty.”

“Yes.”

You know for a fact that it’s more than just appearance keeping you around. No one in the camp has medical knowledge like you and as much as Dutch has a soft spot for pretty girls, he also has a soft spot for lost causes. Why else would he keep people like Swanson and Uncle around when they do nothing but take everything?

There’s something to admire there, you suppose. A gang of outlaws, struggling to survive yet he still keeps around people who only make it more difficult because he cares. He cares enough to even keep someone like Micah around, even if it seems like a stupid idea.

However those thoughts are already far behind you. Instead your heart is inexplicably racing at the thought of Arthur finding you pretty. You’ve seen the men at camp seeking out warm bodies, often being gone for the night after heading for the saloon. You know what they’re doing and it’s not your place to judge. They can live their lives however they want. But Arthur – he doesn’t do the same. If he’s not sleeping in camp it’s because he’s out on a job and that’s it. You’ve heard plenty of Sean trying to get Arthur to loosen up.

Maybe it has to do something with Mary. A broken heart, perhaps? Mary-Beth _did_ say he had a romantic side, but that’s a side you haven’t quite seen yet. Bashful, sure. He’s still having trouble looking at you right now. But not romantic. At least not yet.

“Do _you_ think I’m pretty, Arthur?” you dare to ask.

There’s a stab of regret once the words are out. He’s trapped by them. Either he says yes and it might very well be a lie or he says no and you’re left disappointed. What you’ll be disappointed in is still unclear. Why do you want him to find you pretty? You know your value comes from more than just your face.

“I think you’re…pleasing to the eye.”

There’s a tension building between you, one you’re not sure what to label. You try to diffuse it with some teasing. “Oh, really? What exactly is pleasing?”

He’s about to answer, but another voice interrupts him.

“Mrs. Brooks and Dutch’s boy.”

You both turn around, your blood running cold when you see Atticus approaching you with five men behind him, all armed.

“Morgan, isn’t it?” he says. “Arthur Morgan?”

“The hell do you want?” asks Arthur, getting to his feet. You soon follow, picking up the rifle just in case.

“We just want the lady. Her husband is real worried.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he is.” There’s warning tone in Arthur’s voice that makes you glad to not be on the other end of it. He could be charming and sweet, but he knew exactly how to be intimidating.

“This doesn’t have to be difficult, Mr. Morgan,” says Atticus. “Trust me, she’s more hassle than she’s worth.”

Arthur takes a few slow steps so that he’s at eye level with Atticus. The other men stay back. “She ain’t going nowhere.”

“I don’t think that’s up for you to decide.”

“He’s right,” you pipe in. “I’m not going back.”

“It ain’t up for you to decide, either. You made vows in the eyes of God. Til’ death do us part kinda vows.”

You take a step forward. “Then maybe you just have to kill me.”

“Flynn won’t like that very much. He ain’t interested in corpses.”

“Then I’ll make sure to bury yours where he won’t find it,” says Arthur, his voice deep and gravelly.

“Very funny, Mr. Morgan. It almost makes me forgive you for punching me in the face.” He gestures to his jaw where the injury must have healed.

“Oh, I don’t apologize for that. In fact, I wish I’d knocked out some teeth when I did it.”

Atticus gives a cocky smile. “You’re an outlaw, aren’t you? You want money? Women? I can get you everything you want if you just hand her over.”

“You know what I want? I want you to go running back to your boss and tell him to leave this woman alone.”

There’s a brief pause where Atticus leans over to get a better look at you only for Arthur to step in his way. “Oh – oh I see what’s going on here.” He raises a couple of fingers in a quick movement. One of the men behind him brings up the gun before Arthur can even see it.

What you do is pure instinct. With the rifle still in your hands, you aim at the man and pull the trigger. The bullet goes right through his chest, sending him backwards. It takes the others by surprise, giving Arthur enough time to draw his revolver. Atticus manages to dodge Arthur’s shot as it turns into a blood bath.

Both of you dive into cover. Your hands shake as you try to load another bullet into the chamber, but you fail and drop it. It slides in between the planks, plopping into the water.

Arthur is better and more experienced than you, taking out most of Atticus’ men before the remaining, including the head man himself, run for their lives.

“We’ll be back for her!” he shouts before they ride off.

The movement of the water is now more threatening than calming. You wish it would just stay still so you could ground yourself and catch your breath. You’re supposed to save lives, not take them! Yet you had to – you had to or Arthur would be dead. He came so close to being killed that it makes you stomach feel like a bottomless pit.

You stay in cover, even once they’re gone and Arthur is calling out your name. He finds you, clutching the rifle to your chest and leans down next to you. One hand grabs your shoulder while the other cups your cheek, his skin hot against yours. He says something, but it’s like you’ve suddenly lost your hearing.

“I’ve never…” you start, trailing off.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

You shake your head and he removes his hands, gently taking the rifle from you. “I – Arthur, I’ve never shot someone before. I’ve never killed someone.”

He pauses for just a moment before placing the rifle on the ground and pulling you into a warm hug. You melt into his embrace, slightly surprised that this time he isn’t arguing with you. Tension is still high, the fear of what your actions might have just started now settling in.

“I know,” he says calmly while you try to control your breathing. “It’s over now.”

You pull away so you can see his face. He’s looking at you with concern.

“That man was going to kill you,” you say, gesturing to the one you shot. “I couldn’t let him.”

He pauses. “You killed him for me?”

“Of course. You couldn’t see what was going on and I wasn’t going to let you die. Now I’ve probably only made things worse.”

He shakes his head. “No, you didn’t do nothing wrong.”

“But what if they find camp?”

“Then we’ll take care of it.”

You let out a deep breath. For Arthur this must just be another afternoon, but for you it marks a milestone in a way. Every outlaw had to have their first kill. You just figured yours would be different – or really, you hadn’t thought much of it at all.

 _He was going to kill Arthur,_ you remind yourself. _And if he had killed Arthur, he was going to take me back._

It’s the sad reality you live in now, you suppose. It’s kill or be killed. Kill or be robbed. Kill or be captured. You can start to understand what Dutch means about freedom. Here you’ll always be hunted down by Flynn. You’ll never be free.

When you’re calm enough Arthur moves back to let you up. You head for the bodies and lean down next to one as you start going through his pockets.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks.

“I’ve never killed anyone, but I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies before.” He doesn’t follow or answer so you look up at him. “Don’t tell me you’re above robbing dead bodies.”

“No I’m not. I’m just-” He gives a short, nervous laugh. “You are one confusing woman, Miss Y/N.”

A smile works its way across your lips. “I’d be awfully boring if I wasn’t.”

“How many times have you saved my life now?” He joins you, searching another body.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s what friends do. At least I got away from Micah for a while, right?”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

When all the bodies are looted you mount up and start heading back to camp. It’s a quiet ride, but you need the time to think.

Today you learned a lesson: sometimes to save lives, you have to take them.


	10. certainly not the met

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, sorry this took a while. january held me in a chokehold all month. i still havent gotten my blog back, didnt get the job i wanted, and i was sick pretty much all month since doctors wouldnt do anything for me until i collapsed three times. hopefully this month will be better lol

_Flynn Brooks is one vindictive bastard. He will never stop coming for her, even if it kills him. I worry about what kind of person he’ll turn her into._

* * *

You rest on the log by the river, enjoying some peace and quiet. On your lap is a book that you’re translating from French to English in your journal. It’s a sappy romance that you’re sure the girls will love to hate. The wind blows some of the pages so you use your free hand to keep them down.

It’s only been a few days since you saw Atticus and you’ve surprised yourself at how well you’re doing. Taking a life – it startled you for the rest of the day. You hid it well by the time you got back. Dutch asked how things went and Arthur offered to take care of it, so you let him. You weren’t in the mood to go through it all again. Instead you took your journal down to the river and started writing. You’ve now got pages full of a new short story, one about a woman out for revenge. It’s therapeutic in a way.

But now your journal is almost filled up and it’s on those precious last pages that you’re scribbling down the translation the best you can.

Footsteps approach from behind and you whip around to see Hosea offering a small, apologetic smile.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

“No, not all.” He sits down next to you and clears his throat. “Abigail said I might find you here.” There’s a beat of silence. “Arthur told me what happened at Quaker’s Cove.”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing.”

“Trust me, it’s not nothing. In fact, if you think it’s nothing then I ought to be worried.”

“Wait, which part are we talking about? Flynn’s men finding me or the fact I killed someone?”

“Does it matter?”

You shrug, turning back to your journal. “Maybe not. I just don’t want anyone worrying about me.”

“It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

You pause. “I guess.”

“Your first kill…it’s hard.”

“It gets easier, I presume.”

“If you find joy in it.”

“Do you?”

“Of course not. We’re outlaws, but we’re not monsters. I much prefer a good scam to murder.” He glances out at the water. “I was actually hoping you might be able to help us with something.”

“I’m always willing to help.”

“You remember Tanner’s Reach? The Blakes?”

Of course you remember Tanner’s Reach. It was where you saw Flynn again for the first time since you ran from him. That’s not something you can easily forget.

“I do,” you say slowly.

“Well, there’s an art gallery taking place in town tonight. I have a buyer lined up who’s interested in a specific piece.”

“So you want me to help steal it.”

“Precisely. You and Arthur made an excellent team last time.”

A laugh escapes past your lips. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“Had Flynn Brooks not shown up the entire thing would’ve gone off without a hitch. You held your ground well for your first job.”

“I appreciate the confidence, but I don’t share it.”

“I figured as much. Arthur would disagree, of course.”

This catches your attention. “Arthur?”

“He did recommend you, after all.”

There’s something about it that makes you…warm. He was thinking about you. He thought something of you. Not that it matters, of course. It’s just…nice.

“That’s kind of him,” you say.

“It’s _rare_ of him. Arthur isn’t the biggest fan of most people.”

“Is there a plan?”

“If you decide to join, you and Arthur would go to the gallery and while you create a distraction, he takes the painting and the both of you meet me and the buyer just outside of town.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

“It should be if everything goes according to plan.”

It’s tempting. It’s horribly tempting. You’ve helped them out on some smaller things since Tanner’s Reach, but nothing that puts you right in the middle of the action again. There’s still that bit of anxiety at the back of your mind. What if you fail? What if you make things worse? But then there’s also the other side. What if you succeed? What if you score the group much needed money?

“What’s the dress code?” you ask.

“Formal,” says Hosea.

You nod. “I’d have to go buy a new dress.”

“Of course.”

“But I can be ready by tonight.”

“Is that a yes?”

The corners of your lips twitch. “I believe so, Mr. Matthews.”

“Excellent!” He pats his legs once before standing up. “Arthur will meet you outside the gallery. He’ll be the fool in a suit.”

You laugh. “I’m sure I’ll find him.”

* * *

You buy a new dress and a hat to go with it, the one you wore during the poker game trashed. This time you go without the girls and get something you’re far more comfortable in and one you could wear on the off chance Hosea invites you on more jobs. It’s a bit presumptuous, you suppose. There’s no telling what will happen during this job.

It can’t be _that_ bad…right?

Before evening you make sure everything is peaceful in camp before Abigail helps you slip on the dress. She’s excited to be involved, making sure your dress flows perfectly. Not that it matters much. You’ll be riding your horse into town anyway.

“Arthur is one lucky man,” she says with a smile as she pulls away.

Your cheeks uncomfortably heat up. “Oh, uh, thanks. I guess.” You frown. “You do know this isn’t real, right?”

“Of course I know.” She stifles a laugh. “You should see how red your face is.”

“That’s just because this stupid thing is too warm.” You swish around the skirt of your dress as if that proves your point.

“Alright. I believe you.” She absolutely does not believe you, but you appreciate her playing along with it.

When you’re ready you head into town. The setting sun has cast an orange glow over Blackwater. There’s something pretty about it. You find Arthur a bit farther down from the gallery, smoking a cigarette. You spot Boadicea first, tied up at the far end of the street. You leave Star there, too. When Arthur spots you he takes one final drag and flicks the cigarette to the ground, stomping on it with the toe of his shoe. The smell of smoke still lingers in the air and you hold back a cough.

“Took you long enough,” he says.

“Oh, I’m so _sorry_ , your majesty,” you say, taking a short bow.

“I’m just needling you.”

“Consider me needled.”

He offers you his arm which you take, your gloved fingers wrapping around his jacket sleeve. You can feel him stiffen up a bit. It’s probably nothing.

The gallery is just down the street. It hasn’t opened yet, judging by the crowd gathered outside. They stand around talking and gossiping. None of them pay your or Arthur any mind. It’s entertaining to watch them, knowing that they’re so unaware of what’s about to happen. But then again, so are you. Sure, there’s a plan, but it isn’t exactly detailed.

“What am I supposed to do about a distraction?” you ask.

“Rich folk ain’t that hard to rile up,” he says.

You think back to some of the events your father took you to. “Don’t I know it.”

“You ain’t gonna do your accent again, are you?”

A smile creeps onto your lips. “Why? Does it bother you?”

“If I say yes is that gonna make you do it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then no.”

“Good, then I’m sure you’ll enjoy hearing it some more.” You tip your hat and put on the thickest accent you can. “ _Partner._ ”

He laughs. “You are really something else.”

“Better that than any of these people. I had my fill of snobs in the city. You see that lady there?” You point to a woman in a bright blue dress. “The necklace she’s wearing is worth at least $200.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. You sure we ain’t gonna stand out?”

“They’re snobs, not appraisers. They won’t notice anything.” You pause. “Why? Are you worried?”

“No.”

“You’re worried.”

“I am not.”

You pat his arm. “Aw, it’s okay. It’s normal to be worried. Not everyone natural social talent.”

“Alright, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

A comfortable silence falls between you. Arthur pulls out a pocket watch and checks the time before stashing it away. The sun has completely set now leaving a dark blanket over the town. Crickets make a nuisance and above you stars twinkle in the sky. Mary-Beth would undoubtedly call it romantic. You’re almost inclined to agree.

“So…” you start, kicking the ground with the tip of your boot. “Hosea said you recommended me.”

“He did, did he?” He doesn’t meet your eyes.

“What? I think it’s sweet.” He rolls his eyes and you click your tongue. “Oh, come on. I’m sure you didn’t get Mary just by your looks.”

He frowns. “My looks?”

“Don’t play dumb. I’ve seen five women trying to get your attention since we got here.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“You calling me a liar, Mr. Morgan?”

“I just think you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Read a couple of romances and you’ll understand.”

“Anyway, here’s what it looks like.” Arthur pulls out a small drawing from inside his jacket pocket. “It’s called _The Arrival._ ”

You tilt your head, trying to figure out exactly what was arriving. But the gallery opens and your time is cut short.

The paintings are…not good. Or at least you think so. Maybe the uglier something is, the more expensive it becomes. Or maybe being rich means losing your taste. You’re not even sure what most of them are supposed to be.

“I can’t believe people are paying to look at this,” you whisper.

“So I’m not the only one who’s confused?”

“I have a feeling everyone is. Maybe they have some sort of second sight.” You stop by one that just looks like someone vomited paint.   
“I think this one’s supposed to be…” You struggle to find the words. “I give up. It’s an ugly mush of colors and I hate it. Hey, maybe one day you’ll get your own exhibit.”

He laughs. “You really got your head in the clouds tonight.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for being a supportive friend. From what you’ve shown me you’ve got real talent.”

“It’s just…sketches.”

“If it’s ‘just sketches’ then maybe real, dedicated work will be even better. And let’s be honest, a pig rolling in mud could make something better than all of this.” You gesture around the room. “You may think my head is in the clouds, but I think your head is the _ground_. Why do you always have to put yourself down?”

“It ain’t a big deal.” He sounds like he’s starting to get irritated and there’s a part of you that likes getting under his skin.

“See? Now you’re getting defensive!”

“It’s…we got a job to do.”

You concede. “Fine. But don’t think I won’t bring this up again.”

He sighs heavily. “I have no doubt you will.”

You walk around for a bit silent, Arthur still keeping you close. He’s much more relaxed now. Maybe his stress has shifted to other problems, like when you’re going to start pestering him again. You don’t mean it in a _bad_ way, of course. It’s just kind of…funny, in away. Big bad Arthur Morgan, his greatest weakness low self-esteem. Even now as you peruse the gallery, there’s women looking at him. Ogling him. Actually, now it’s starting to bother you. Don’t they see you on his arm?

 _Stop it_ , you tell yourself. _This isn’t even real._

Arthur leaves you for a moment to get you a drink. If one of these women approached Arthur, would he turn them down? Even outside of the job? They’re all very beautiful if you’re being honest. Beautiful, rich women, probably bored out of their minds. And there he is, a handsome, gruff outlaw.

He finally returns, a drink for him and a drink for you, both in tall, skinny glasses. You take yours and down a small sip.

“Why didn’t you and Mary get married?” you blurt.

Arthur blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t have to answer, I’m just curious.”

“It’s…” He sighs and lowers his voice. “Her family didn’t exactly approve.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t say anything. He just sloshes around the drink in his glass. “Do you still love her?”

“It don’t matter.”

“I think it does.”

“Oh, yeah? How so?”

“You look down on yourself. You think you’re unlovable.”

He gives a nervous laugh. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to. I hear the boys complaining you ruin their chances with women, you refuse to believe anyone here would find you attractive, you even put down your skills as an artist. You’ve run with a gang for years. Insecurity should be the least of your worries.”

He scoffs. “What are you, some kind of psychologist now?”

“I’m a friend and I’m worried about you.”

“Well, don’t be.”

“I’m just saying that I’ve met a lot of unlovable people in my life, but you aren’t one of them.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead he empties the drink down his throat. You glance around the gallery again. _There._

“Hey, look, that’s the one.” You point toward _The Arrival_ where it’s on display _._ “Right there.”

He follows your sight and nods. “You’re right. You got a plan yet?”

You quickly look around the room. What could cause a scene but not bring too much lasting attention on yourself? There’s a group of elderly women gossiping, a trio of men in tall hats drinking, a couple arguing. Now that – that sounds just right.

“You know what? I think I do.” You drink what's left in your glass and wince as it burns. “See you on the other side.”

Before he has a chance to respond, you march over to the couple and yank the man away from the woman.

“You’re married?” you nearly shout, laying the accent on thick. “You pig!”

The man is horribly baffled. “Excuse me?”

“You said we was gonna run away and have babies! I can’t believe you’ve been lying to me this whole time!”

“Richard, who is this?” asks the woman.

“I have no goddamn clue.”

“Oh, don’t you pretend you don’t know me.” You smack his arm and they both gasp. “We been in love for the past six months!”

“Lady, I don’t know you!”

“The hell you don’t!” You start trying to shed fake tears, making your voice high pitched to emulate crying. “And to think I even introduced you to mama!”

“Richard, is this true?” says the woman, horrified.

“I – the hell?” He sputters as he trips over his words, much to the horror of his lady.

“ _The Arrival_!” someone cries out. “It’s gone!”

That’s your cue. The attention quickly turned away from the scene you created, giving you the perfect opportunity to escape. Before the unlucky man you targeted could return to you, you quickly head for the exit.

Arthur isn’t anywhere in sight, so you start heading toward the horses. Before you can get to them, someone grabs your arm and pulls you into an alley. At first you’re ready to fight, terrified that either Atticus or Flynn has found you. But you let out a breath of relief to find that it’s just Arthur.

“You got it?” you ask.

He shows you the painting with a cocky smirk. “Nicely done, by the way.”

You curtsy. “Why, thank you.”

“I have to say, the accent is kinda growing on me.”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“That’s for sure.”

He’s standing close to you. Maybe a little too close. At this point he doesn’t seem to have noticed it or maybe he just doesn’t care. You’re not sure which one you’re hoping for.

You clear your throat. “Where are we meeting Hosea?”

“Just outside of town,” he says. He starts heading back to the street. “We should probably get going before-”

He suddenly backs up, pushing you into the wall. Your back is cold up against the bricks, but his breath is warm on your cheek as the sounds of footsteps start heading your way. He has one arm on either side of you, caging you in.

“Law?” you whisper.

He nod and glances down at the painting. If they look down the alley and see it, both of you are done for.

The footsteps continue growing closer and it’s only a matter of time before they find you both. There’s still a chance you can run for the other end of the alley, but there could be police down there, too. Looking at Arthur’s close proximity, an idea pops into your head.

“Arthur, do you trust me?” you ask, your pulse rising as you set your plan into motion.

He turns his attention to you. “Of course I trust you.”

Before the officers can look down the alley you grab Arthur by the collar of his shirt and pull him down, crushing your lips against his.

He’s warm. Soft. Your heart pounds against your chest. Is it from the anxiety or something else? You just hope he can’t hear it or feel it. But it’s also nice. Gentle. He doesn’t pull away. Instead he…it’s like he’s _enjoying_ it. Maybe he’s more of an actor than he lets on, but his lips are heavy against yours.

The whole thing lasts for ten seconds tops. The officers pass by the alley and move on with their search, leaving you and Arthur behind. Once the coast is clear you pull away, your lips on fire and your heart ready to burst.

Arthur stays close to you, frozen. The energy he had just moments ago is gone. You’re forced to duck under his arm as you head to the sidewalk, looking back and forth to make sure the street is clear.

“They’re gone,” you tell him in a hushed voice.

Arthur finally moves away from the wall, stroking his chin once before nodding. His silence isn’t completely uncharacteristic, but not in a moment like this. Not with you. You expect him to make some sort of joke, but it never comes. Instead he silently follows you as you get back to the horses.

The ride to the meeting spot is short, but torturous. Arthur says nothing as he takes the lead. You decide to give him some space by staying back a few steps. Regret is already filling your stomach like a bad meal. You’re grateful when you finally see Hosea standing next to an elderly man with a wagon.

“How did everything go?” asks Hosea.

“Fine,” says Arthur quickly, dismounting. You follow him. He hands the painting over to the buyer who starts examining it.

Hosea glances between the two of you, like he knows something happened but not _what_ happened. Not that anything actually did happen. You kissed him. Big deal. Arthur’s smart enough to know it wasn’t meant as anything more than to save your skins. It might make things a little weird for a while, but that’ll go away eventually.

“Everything looks to be in order,” says the buyer. He hands Hosea a wad of cash. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

As the buyer places the painting in the wagon and drives off, Hosea splits up the money and hands you and Arthur your shares. It’s fifty dollars, not too bad.

“Well done, both of you,” says Hosea. He pats your shoulder fondly. “We’ll make a thief out of you yet.”

“It’s best we split up,” says Arthur. He still hasn’t looked in you in the eye since the alley.

“Agreed,” says Hosea, climbing onto his horse. “I’ll see you both at camp.” He rides off.

Arthur also mounts his horse, but you stay on the ground. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re absolutely certain he can hear.

“Is everything okay, Arthur?” you ask. You’re terrified to know the answer. What if he says no? You have an explanation.

He clears his throat. “Sure.”

Sure. _Sure._ It’s not good enough and he _still_ won’t meet your eyes. Was it just that bad of a kiss? Has he been seeing someone you don’t know about? Dozens of questions start running through your head fast enough that smoke might start coming out your ears. 

“Because if it’s not, you can tell me,” you say.

“Everything’s fine. I’ll see you later.”

You’re left alone as he rides out, still holding your cut of the job. There’s a horribly empty pit at the bottom of your stomach, but you push it down as you mount Star and head back to camp, the taste of his lips still on yours.


	11. fool's game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys have given me over 1000 kudos i am STUNNED. you're all honestly amazing. seriously, thanks for sticking around despite the wait times. i'm still trying to get a grip on this year (and i STILL haven't gotten my blog back) and i appreciate how patient and understanding you all are. 
> 
> enjoy!

_My dreams have turned soft. A kind of soft I don’t dare speak of out loud. I am aware she only kissed me to save us both, but I’m left tortured now that I know how her lips taste. And, despite my better judgment, I am wishing for her to do it again._

* * *

Things between you and Arthur take a while to improve. At first he takes days before he speaks to you of his own volition. Afterwards it’s a battle to get him back to normal. You can’t imagine kissing him left some kind of irreparable damage…but could it? You hate to think that a brief, impulsive act to keep you both safe would ultimately destroy the friendship you valued so greatly.

After a couple of weeks things get back on track, though there’s still a strange energy between you that you don’t quite understand.

You’re honest in your journal, making a list of things you feel. Arthur is one of your closest friends, rivaled by Abigail. You enjoy spending time with him. Despite his outlaw nature he’s genuinely good and kind. He also has soft lips. No, that’s not something to write down. Though it’s true, you suppose. His lips are soft and…honestly? You kinda liked kissing him. You think about it from time to time, once painfully pricking Sean while stitching him.

But it’s stupid. Juvenile. Sure, he’s handsome. There’s a ruggedness about him that you find strangely attractive. You like the feel of his scruffy beard. The scars on his chin where hair won’t grow. The bright blue-green of his eyes and the way his eyelids fluttered, even after you pulled away. But at the end of the day he’s not your type. You like good people, honest people. Though Arthur has always been good to you, and honest.

Frustrated, you close your journal with your pen inside. This isn’t helping.

Nearby Bill and Javier are arguing about something. Ordinarily you’d intervene but your thoughts are elsewhere and frankly you’re tired of getting involved. You aren’t their mother. If they kill each other, they kill each other.

Perhaps the best course of action is to spend some time with Arthur. _Just_ Arthur. No Hosea, as much as you like him. Arthur will do something stupid that pisses you off and you’ll remember that while you’re adapting to the outlaw life, you could never develop feelings for one.

You start brainstorming different ideas. Maybe the girls have a tip on some easy robbery that the two of you can do together. Or you can even just invite him on a ride – no, that’s too intimate. Or is it? You shake your head. _Stop overthinking this._

It takes you a while, but finally you come up with something perfect.

You go looking for him at his spot in camp only to find that he’s gone. It isn’t unusual, but it’s a disappointment. He’s been going out more often these days. Sometimes it’s by himself, sometimes it’s with others. Dutch has been pushing for more money lately, talking about his plan of going west to California. If you decide to stick with the group, it’ll be the farthest you’ve ever been from New York.

You loiter around his wagon for a bit just in case he comes back soon. Afternoon is quickly turning into evening and Pearson is just putting out the stew.

“Hot and ready!” he calls out. “Come and get it!”

A line quickly forms, but you continue to wait. Next to his bed are some pictures and a small glass jar with a flower in it. You’re a bit uncomfortable, checking out his things like this, but in all the time you’ve been here you haven’t gotten a close look. One picture is of a woman named Beatrice Morgan. Arthur’s mother, you realize.

For some reason it’s kind of weird seeing a photograph of his mother. It’s hard to imagine him as a kid. It makes more sense that he just appeared in the world as a fully grown adult, but at some point in the past he was a little kid with a mother he loved and father he loathed. Or at least that’s what you’ve gathered given how he speaks of them.

There’s another photograph of a woman. She’s young. Pretty. Long dark hair in a braid down her back. You turn the frame over, but there’s no name. You’re fairly certain he doesn’t have a sister and men normally didn’t keep a nice picture of a friend by their bedside.

It’s when the sky turns orange that Arthur returns alone. He freezes for a split second when he sees you waiting, just long enough for you to notice.

“How long you been sitting there?” he asks.

“Just a bit,” you say. “I have an idea.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Very funny. It’s a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Cattle rustling. I know of a family that’s willing to pay good money for good cattle.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And where we gonna get the cattle?”

“A ranch.”

“What ranch?” You open your mouth to speak and he shakes his head. “You better not say Flynn Brooks’ ranch.”

You pause. There’s no way to answer other than honestly. “Flynn Brooks’ ranch.” He scoffs and steps back. “What? Why is that such a bad thing?”

“We shouldn’t go stirring up a hornet’s nest.”

“I thought you were a tough guy.”

He frowns. “Excuse me?”

“You punched Atticus for me after knowing me for what? A week?”

He gestures in the direction of Blackwater. “That was different. I didn’t know who he was.”

“Doesn’t that make your actions even worse? At least going after Flynn’s cattle we know _what_ hornet’s nest we’re kicking.”

You begin to worry you’re only making things worse. Arthur isn’t one to turn down a legitimate job. You can’t help but wonder if there’s something you don’t know about. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to spend time with you anymore.

After a great sigh, he says, “Is the pay good?”

You’ve gotten his interest somehow. Good. “It should be. The MacFarlane’s are good people and Flynn loves taking everything good.”

“This better not be some revenge thing.”

“Why?”

“Because revenge is a fool’s game. Nothing good will come out of it.”

“It’s not a revenge thing. It’s a job, a paying job, that just so happens to involve screwing over my evil husband.”

He gives a humorless laugh. “Fine. But we should have another gun, just in case.” Your heart drops. “Lenny!”

You like Lenny. He’s nice. Smart. You’re not against working with him, either, but it defeats the whole purpose. How are you going to force Arthur to work through things with someone else there?

“Yeah, Arthur?” says Lenny as he hurries over.

“We got work, you in?”

He glances at you. “What kind of work?”

“Cattle rustling.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“You ready?” Arthur asks.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, close to just letting the whole thing go. But you’re too deep now. Turning back after working so hard to convince him would not go well. So instead you nod and change into your riding clothes.

* * *

You ride for a while before taking a short break just after the sun sets. Arthur sets up a fire and the three of you eat what you had thought to bring along. The ranch is still a bit of a ride away, but you’re certain you can get there and get the cattle before dawn. It’s better to do it in the dark, anyway. Flynn always has guards and with Arthur and Lenny it’ll be easy to take them down or distract them. You even got a few sticks of dynamite just in case.

In the meantime Arthur lays down and somehow falls asleep instantly. You envy that ability. He doesn’t need a bed or a pillow or a blanket. He can just sit down in the forest, bring his hat forward and nod off.  

“How long you been with us now?” asks Lenny.

“Only a few months,” you say. “Feels like ages, though.”

“I’m sure.”

Lenny’s friendliness only makes you feel worse. It’s probably better he’s along, anyway. Arthur isn’t himself and Lenny, despite being driven more by impulse than anything, can help keep him grounded. Besides, it does alleviate some of the tension, even if it did leave Arthur quiet on the ride while you and Lenny discussed literature.

“So, Mr. Summers, what made you join this group of reprobates?” you ask.

“I was on the run like a lot of them folk.” He gestures to Arthur with the spoon he’s using to eat out of a can. “Killed the men who killed my father.”

You glance at Arthur’s peaceful, sleeping form. “Ah, good old fashioned revenge. Arthur says revenge is a fool’s game.”

He laughs. “Those are Dutch’s words, not his. What, you looking for revenge?”

“Maybe a little. I don’t think Arthur – or Dutch, for that matter-” You tear your gaze away from Arthur. “I don’t think they get it.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that, I was stuck for years. It was an endless cycle where one day my husband would love me and then that very night I’d say something wrong or I’d do something wrong and suddenly he-” You stop, the words getting caught in your mouth.

“I get what you mean. Believe me, I get it.”

You try to shrug the trauma off your shoulders. “But I guess Dutch saved me in a way. I don’t always agree with everything he says or does, but I would probably be dead if it weren’t for him taking me in.”

“He saved all of us. No one ever did tell me what happened that night in Blackwater.”

“You mean when the boys found me?” You laugh. “I was trying to get money for a coach. I hoped to get to Riggs Station so I could take a train up north. I didn’t care where. I just needed to put as much distance between me and my husband as possible.”

“Let me guess, you tried to rob someone.”

“Oh, not just someone. I tried to rob _Micah._ ”

He smiled. “Oh, boy.”

“I was watching the three of them, Micah, Dutch, and Arthur. Micah seemed the dumbest of them so I thought he’d be an easy target. He caught me though, pulled out his gun. Dutch stopped him from shooting before Arthur even knew what was happening.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I am very well aware. Though maybe being killed would’ve been a blessing in disguise. Now I’m Micah’s…fixation.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“I’m guessing Dutch has a no killing rule?”

“Unfortunately. I’m sure if he didn’t, Micah would’ve been killed his first day in camp.”

“That would certainly save us a lot of trouble.”

“Don’t I know it.”

It’s easy talking to Lenny. You can see why Arthur likes him so much. You’ve see the two of the around camp, Arthur acting like a big brother. He’s like that with a lot of the other gang members, particularly in the way he bickers with John almost daily.

Except you. He isn’t that way with you, or Micah for that matter. But he’s a different story.

Not that you _want_ Arthur to be a big brother to you. You don’t see him in that way at all. Instead you see him as…you don’t know. There’s a word for it that you either don’t know or don’t care to realize. Either way, it makes your stomach churn in a strange way.

* * *

 

You wake up Arthur when it’s time to go. You lead the both of them the rest of the way, through Armadillo where there’s a fight happening just outside the saloon. Arthur and Lenny share a laugh.

It’s quiet and dark as you take them up to a hill that overlooks the ranch. You dismount first, slipping out a pair of binoculars. The boys do the same.

Coming back to the ranch…it’s the last thing you ever wanted to do. You spent the ride not thinking too much about it, but now that you’re here, it’s a whole different story. Even the dark you see the spot where your horse died, where you buried Timothy. There’s bad memories for nearly every place you look.

Scanning across the property you spot a couple of men out on patrol.

“He’s got guards,” you say. “Looks like O’Driscolls.”

“O’Driscolls?” says Arthur with a bit of venom. It shocks you.

“What? You guys have problems with them?”

Lenny gives a dry laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

“Then you boys should have no problems killing them.”

“You okay with murder now?” asks Arthur.

“Does that bother you?”

He pauses. “I suppose not.”

“Good.”

This can’t be too hard. There’s a silo nearby that a stick of dynamite should take down, or at least damage. It’ll draw the attention away from the pen allowing you to get in and get out.

“Alright,” says Arthur. “Lenny, you go-”

Irritated, you interrupt. “No offense, Arthur, but this is _my_ show. I know this place better than you. You’ll follow what I say.”

Lenny gives a low whistle. “She sure told you.”

“Shut up,” says Arthur in a hushed voice.

“The both of you, take this.” You pull two sticks of dynamite out of your satchel and hand them to Lenny who then hands one off to Arthur. “Go blow up that silo over there.” You gesture to the one, just on the edge of the ranch.

“Won’t that just draw their attention?” asks Arthur.

“That’s the whole point. Once they’re distracted, I’ll ride down and move the cattle. Easy.”

Arthur isn’t so convinced. “And what happens when we’ve got a whole band of O’Driscolls coming at us guns blazing?”

“Do you have a problem, Arthur? Because if you don’t want to go through with this you can go back to camp. I’m sure Lenny and I can handle this.”

“I don’t have a problem with the job, I have a problem with doing something that’ll get us killed.”

“Or maybe you’ve just had a chip on your shoulder since I kissed you.”

It just slips out. Once you’ve said it you easily regret it, but it’s like he’s doing everything to get under your skin. Why even come all this way if all he’s going to do is argue with you?

“You what?” says Lenny.

Arthur bashfully looks away. “It ain’t nothing like that.”

“Really?” you snap, getting him to turn back to you. “Then why have you been acting so strange?”

“I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have.” You sigh, chest tightening. “Look, you don’t have to worry about me doing it again, alright? Let’s just move on. You and Lenny need to go blow up the silo _now_. We can’t waste any more night.”

“Fine.”

He gets up, Lenny following. You watch as they sneak toward the silo and disappear from sight.

You let out an agitated breath. In hindsight, you might have been a bit harsh. But he _was_ acting weird and everything would just be better if he forgot what happened and moved on. Though, if you’re being honest, you can’t forget about it. Every time you look at him you remember what his lips felt like, what they tasted like. You remember the faint smell of cigarette smoke that hangs around him. You remember his beard scratching your skin.

It makes you feel like a fool. A fool who latches on to the first attractive person that’s nice to you after spending years in a loveless marriage. Arthur’s smart. He probably sees it, too. That just makes it _worse_.

The sudden humiliation only has a few seconds to properly wash over you before the silo goes _BOOM_. The shooting starts soon after as the O’Driscolls investigate and find a pair of bandana clad trespassers. When you see a clearing you make your move.

Rustling the cattle isn’t so hard. You bring Star around behind them and start forcing them out of the pen. The problem is the time sensitivity. Arthur and Lenny will eventually ride off to safety and some of the O’Driscolls will likely follow, but not all. You don’t intend to be here when they come back.

Your heart pounds, hand ready to pull out your rifle if need be. But for once, things go as planned. You get out of there before the fighting finds you and you meet up with Arthur and Lenny near town. They quickly fall in line with you on their horses.

“Everything good?” asks Arthur.

“Yeah,” you say. “You?”

“Well, we ain’t dead yet.”

“I can see. Let’s get going. I want to be at the ranch by sunrise.”

“So, Flynn Brooks is in cahoots with the O’Driscolls,” says Arthur as you head around Armadillo and toward Hennigan’s Stead.

“He hires gangs to protect his property, yes,” you say. “Sometimes it’s Del Lobos, sometimes it’s Atticus’ men, sometimes it’s O’Driscolls. Why does it bother you so much?”

“Colm and Dutch hate each others’ guts,” says Lenny, leaning over toward you.

“Why?” Your tone is dry and overly sarcastic. “They seem like they’d be great friends.”

* * *

You arrive at the ranch at the crack of dawn. The ranch hands are already working and you’re sure Mr. MacFarlane’s daughter is somewhere doing something. You ask that Lenny helps the workers get the cattle into the pen while you and Arthur collect the money.

“Mr. MacFarlane?” you call out as you hitch your horse in front of the house. “Are you home?”

The door opens and he steps out, brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“I have something you might be interested in over at the pen.” You gesture to where the ranch hands are moving the cattle.

Mr. MacFarlane’s eyes go wide, his lips parted. “Where – where did you get them?”

“It doesn’t matter. They’re yours for-”

“Free,” Arthur interjects. “We heard y’all were having a rough time lately.”

You blink, stunned. Arthur isn’t selfish, but he also isn’t one to turn down a profit. The MacFarlane’s aren’t rich, but you know they’d be able to pay for what you brought in.

“You’re just giving them to us for free?” asks Mr. MacFarlane. “The wife of Flynn Brooks?”

“Consider it compensation for what he’s done to you,” you say, playing along. “He’s hurt far too many good people. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Well…it weren’t your fault. Thank you, Mrs. Brooks.”

When Mr. MacFarlane leaves, it’s just you and Arthur. “That was real kind of you,” you say. “Stupid, but kind. Maybe that should go on your gravestone.”

“Well, I reckon they deserve it.”

“How very Robin Hood.”

He breathes through his nose and grips his gun belt.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say.

“No, don’t – you got nothing to apologize for.”

“I do. I was frustrated and I took it out on you instead of just _talking_ which is what I wanted to do in the first place _._ I’m sorry I if I made things weird after the gallery.”

“You didn’t make anything weird.”

“You don’t have to lie.” You pause. It would be a good time to stop, but now that you’re talking normally you don’t have the sense to. “There’s a picture of a woman next to your bed. Who is she?”

“You mean my ma?”

“No, the other one. With the braid.”

He clears his throat and kicks the dirt with the toe of his boot. “That’s, uh, Mary. Mary Linton.”

You don’t know why didn’t realize that. Of course it’s Mary. Of course he’s got a picture of his ex-fiancé at his bedside where he can always see it. That’s completely normal and healthy behavior. What’s _not_ normal is putting that picture away and moving on with your life.

You internally chastise yourself. It isn’t your place to judge. It does, however, fill you with an awful sense of bitterness. There’s only one reason he would keep that picture close to him, and it’s that he is still deeply in love with her. That shouldn’t bother you – you’re certainly not in love with him.

Maybe it’s because he makes you feel special, in a way. It might be arrogant to admit, but he’s more taken with you than people he’s known for years. He clearly cares about you to some degree. Perhaps your previous assessment was wrong. It’s occurring to you now that he might actually see you as a little sister and that’s why your kiss caused so much turmoil.

Not that is should matter to you. He’s an outlaw. He’s not your type. You should take your own advice and get over it.

“She’s very pretty,” you say in hopes of diffusing the growing tension. “I’m sure you miss her.”

He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say. If there’s anything you’ve learned, expressing feeling isn’t one of Arthur’s strong suits. He can rob a man at gunpoint and not break a sweat, but the moment he needs to confront anything in his heart he freezes.

“We should probably head back,” you say. “I don’t think Miss Grimshaw is going to be happy we’re coming back with nothing.”

“Believe me, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

You mount up and wait for Lenny who comes rushing over.

“How much did we get?” he asks.

“A sense of pride,” says Arthur.

Lenny frowns as he gets on his horse. “What?”

“Arthur gave them the cattle for free,” you say.

“And why didn’t I get to be a part of that decision?”

“It’s a good deed, kid,” says Arthur in jest. 

“I know, I know. But we _are_ outlaws.”

You laugh. “Don’t I know it.”


	12. saving john marston

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good news! i got a job! hopefully now that this year is getting better that means i'll finally get a literary agent lol

_Not since Mary has a woman turned me into such a fool. I should’ve never walked away without money, but I see the good in her and in some way I want that goodness for myself._

* * *

 

The camp is mostly quiet. Arthur and John went out on a job to rob a homestead. Uncle, Bill, and the Callander boys are in the Blackwater saloon. The only noise you hear are Karen and Susan briefly burying the hatchet as they drunkenly sing together around the campfire while Javier plays the guitar.

“Try it again,” says Hosea, holding a book in front of Jack. You sit on the other side of him while Abigail hovers in the background.

“I don’t want to,” says Jack.

“At least try,” says Abigail. She paces back and forth, arms crossed.

He gives a heavy sigh. “The…horse…rode…into…town…” He stopped. “Mamma, can I go play instead?”

“You’re doing so great, Jack,” you tell him. “Why would you want to stop now?”

“Because I’m _bored_.”

“Better bored than dead,” says Abigail and you shoot her a look. “It’s true,” she adds.

“Perhaps we can pick this up tomorrow,” says Hosea. He closes the book and sets it aside.

“Fine,” says Abigail. “But don’t stray too far now, you hear me?”

“Yes, mamma.” Jack jumps off the crate and rushes over to a large stick that lays nearby.

Abigail lets out a deep breath, watching Jack as he aimless pokes at the ground. “I worry about that boy.”

“We all do,” says Hosea. “But he’s smart. He’ll be okay.” He pats Abigail on the shoulder before heading toward the fire where Karen is now sitting on Sean’s lap, lifting a drink up in the air.

“Has anyone told you that you worry too much,” you say.

Abigail snorts. She picks up the book and places it on a crate in John’s tent. “Someone has to worry. Lord knows his father don’t.”

You follow her inside, the cloth giving the both of you a little bit of privacy. “Would you like me to talk to John?”

“That’s a kind offer, but that man’s head is a thick as a tree trunk. Ain’t nothing getting through to him.”

“Yes, well, he hasn’t faced _my_ wrath yet.”

This gets her laughing. A genuine laugh. It’s nice to hear. “Oh, really? And what does that entail?”

“Ask Arthur.”

“I might just have to. That man follows you around like a lost puppy.”

You pause, words caught in your throat. “He does not.”

“Sure he does. Ever since you both came back from Strawberry.” She leans forward and lowers her voice. “If I didn’t know better I’d say he’s in love with you.”

This makes your pulse spike. Your cheeks heat up and hope in the darkness she can’t see how red they must be. “Oh, please, Abigail. Don’t be ridiculous. He keeps a photograph of his former fiancé at his bedside.”

“And?”

“And what? What does that tell you?”

“Well, your tone tells me it upsets you.”

“No it doesn’t.” She raises her eyebrows and you realize you raised your voice. You clear your throat and speak quieter. “I’m not upset.”

“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.”

“He’s just a good friend, end of story.” She doesn’t say anything, instead cocking an eyebrow. You shift uncomfortably. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“You know for someone so smart you can be real dumb.”

She laughs a bit and heads toward Jack, playfully scooping him up as he giggles. You turn away, your face on fire. You’re not sure if it’s from frustration or embarrassment. Probably a bit of both. It would do you good to splash some cold water on, so you get up and head down to the river.

There it’s completely quiet, save for the crickets and soft trickling of water as it passes by. Smoke spirals up in the air from the campfire. It’s peaceful here, but the silence leaves you with just your thoughts to keep you company.

Whatever Abigail thinks exists between you and Arthur isn’t real and even if it is, it’s the least of your worries. It’s been days since you, Arthur, and Lenny stole the cattle from Flynn’s ranch. He might write it off as random cattle rustlers, but he’s far too paranoid for that. At some point he’ll link it to you or at least to the gang. And then what? What happens if Flynn finds the camp? What happens if he retaliates? You just hope the gang has enough money to go west soon so you can put all of this behind you and move on.

After a couple extra minutes you head back. Dutch has turned on the gramophone in his tent. He sits on a chair outside it while Molly preens her reflection in her pocket mirror. Dutch closes his book as you pass.

“And how are you doing, Miss Y/N?” he asks.

You stop and turn to him, his face glowing in the flickering candlelight.

“I’m well, how are you?”

“Never better. I hear you, Arthur, and young Lenny got in your good deed for the week.”

You smile sheepishly. “I’m sorry we didn’t come back with anything.”

“Don’t ever apologize for acts of kindness.” He points his index finger in your direction. “And especially don’t apologize for things that ain’t your fault.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Before you can walk away he speaks again. “Have you ever read Evelyn Miller?”

“I’ve read a few of his books. Are you a fan?”

“Oh, I think fan is an understatement. His work to me is like…the Bible for Evangelicals.”

There’s a crate next to him, so you place the lantern on the ground so you can sit down. “So you purposefully misinterpret his text to justify your agenda?”

He laughs, placing one hand on his thigh and turning his body toward you. “I suppose you could say that from a certain perspective.”

“To be honest, I think he’s views are fairly subjective to one’s own experience.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“To me it sounds like he believes humankind is inherently driven by greed, but he doesn’t ask where that greed came from. I’ve spent enough time around wealthy bigwigs that I know greed isn’t something that exists within us, but something that is manufactured to keep the rich, rich and the poor, poor.”

He tilts his head. “So you believe that people are inherently good?” He uses his free hand to gesture toward his chest. “That even the suits in Washington and the Pinkertons in Blackwater have good souls deep beneath the veneer?”

“What Evelyn Miller doesn’t understand is that we’re socialized to make choices, but we always find a way to justify those choices. When you rob someone, what do you tell yourself?”

“In order to live free, we must take from the people who try to enslave us.”

“And I could say that’s just a way for you to rob with impunity. I know what Strauss does. I don’t think those debtors are trying to force into you into civilization.”

“Now that is different.”

“And now you’re convincing yourself of something to justify your choice because you know deep down it’s wrong.”

He’s silent for a moment, studying you. Then the corners of his lips twitch and he laughs, shaking his head.

“You know, it’s been a long time since someone was able to give me a proper intellectual challenge.”

“I’m always up for arguing with people just to prove them wrong.”

“Perhaps we should go up into the mountains again and discuss this further.”

“That would be nice, Dutch. I would be happy to forcibly change your worldview.”

Someone clears their throat. It’s Molly, arms crossed and standing behind you. “Dutch,” she says, “may I have a word?”

“Sure, my love,” he says. He affectionately pats your knee as he gets up and follows Molly into their tent. You get up and start heading toward your cot, glancing back to see Molly narrow her eyes at you and close the flaps.

Frowning, you turn to see Arthur riding in with John’s horse behind him – except no John.

“Can we get some help over here?” he calls out.

You’re joined by several others as you head over to see that John was behind Arthur the whole time, his shirt ripped and bloodied and his eyes closing as he starts falling off the horse. Arthur is able to catch him in time and Charles hurries over, picking John up by the legs.

You’re instantly in doctor mode, ordering them to take John into his tent and lay him on the bed.

“Tilly, get my supplies,” you say.

“Sure,” she replies and heads toward your things.

“What’s going on?” says Abigail, rushing over. “Is John okay?”

You haven’t gotten a good look at him yet, but judging by the amount of blood things aren’t good. You can’t tell her that, though. Abigail is a blessing at your side when you need help, but she’ll be far too nervous and worried to assist you now.

“I’m sorry, Abigail, but you’re going to have to stay out here,” you say as Tilly heads inside with a tray of medical instruments. “Susan, can you keep an eye on her?”

“Of course,” says Susan, taking Abigail’s arm and leading her away. “Everything is going to be fine, Miss Roberts.”

Tilly closes up the tent, but you can still hear the others just outside. Hosea herds them all away, but the camp is even more eerily quiet now.

You use a knife to cut through John’s shirt for quick access. There’s two wounds, one on his side and one in his shoulder. He’s completely unconscious now, his skin a sickly white. Arthur helps you turn him over enough so you can see his back – there’s an exit on the lower wound, but the bullet must still be stuck in the other. You bandage the exit wound the best you can before plopping him back down.

“Tilly, keep pressure here,” you say, pointing to the lower wound. “Charles, get something to cauterize the wounds.” He nods and heads out of the tent. “Arthur, I need you to hold him down. I’m going to get the bullet out, but it’s going to hurt.”

“I know,” he says, placing his hands on John’s shoulders, avoiding the wound as best as possible.

You suck in a deep breath and grab the bullet extractor. He wakes up the moment you insert it and Arthur does well holding him in place while Tilly tells him it’ll be okay. He groans as you feel around for the bullet until you finally grab it and yank it out. It takes all of thirty seconds, but you swear it’s longer. You drop the bullet on the tray with a _clink_ and exhale, watching as John fades back into unconsciousness.

Charles returns with a hot poker that you use to cauterize the wounds. John, again, writhes in pain, but once it’s over he relaxes.

The bleeding stops and you’ve hopefully prevented infection, but there’s no telling what damage was inflicted inside. For all you know, one of the bullets hit a vital organ and his internal bleeding will kill him before the sun comes up. But there’s nothing you can do about that, especially with the supplies you have.

“Okay,” you say. “I think that’s good enough for now.”

“He gonna be okay?” asks Charles.

“Too soon to say.” You turn to Tilly. “Thank you for the help, I appreciate it. You should probably go check on Abigail.”

She nods. “Of course.”

“Charles, can you grab a bucket of water?” You hold out your bloodied hands.

“Sure.”

When he’s gone, it’s just you and Arthur at John’s beside. A moment of silence falls between you. Some of his face is obscured by shadows, but where the flame flickers across his skin you see worry.

“What the hell happened?” you ask. “I thought you were just robbing some man’s home.”

“We were until this idiot got himself caught,” says Arthur, gesturing at John.

“Well, you’re lucky you got him here in time.”

“I knew he’d be fine. He always is.”

You click your tongue. “He could be dead by this time tomorrow, Arthur.”

He doesn’t say anything. Maybe the reality of it sets in or he’s not in the mood to argue. You certainly aren’t. John’s life is in your hands. He isn’t someone like Micah whose death would bring joy or Bill whose death would likely be forgotten. He’s got Abigail and Jack, he’s one of Dutch’s favorites. If he died under your care, you’re not sure anyone would forgive you. Not even Arthur.

When the flaps open it’s Charles with a bucket of water. You thank him, washing off your bloodstained hands and using it to clean John the best you can.

“You can both go,” you say.

“You sure?” says Arthur.

Nodding, you jerk your head toward the camp. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

“If you need anything-” starts Charles.

“I know. Thank you.” You offer a tired smile to the both of them. “He’s okay for now. I’ll call for help if I need it.”

Charles ducks out, though Arthur isn’t so quick to follow.

“I’m serious,” you say, but he doesn’t appear likely to budge. “Maybe you can go fetch Abigail for me. I’m sure she’d like to see him.”

He thinks for a moment before finally saying, “Sure.”

Once he’s gone you’re finally able to let out a deep breath. You collapse to the ground, your head briefly rolling back. It’s times like this that you wonder how in the hell these people have survived for so long. A quick glance over John’s torso shows a variety of faded scars and you’re certain the others are the same.

About a minute later Abigail bursts in, stopping short when she sees John’s bloodied, bandaged, half-naked body on his cot. A mix of emotions flash across her face. She curls her fingers into fists, opening one to clutch her shirt just over her heart.

“He’s alive?” she asks, not even looking at you where you sit on the ground.

“For now,” you say.

She lets out a breath, closing her eyes for a few seconds. “What a stupid man.”

“Hopefully you’ll be able to tell him that.”

For the first time since entering the tent she looks at you. Her eyes glisten and she blinks it away. “Thank you,” she says, leaning down in front of you and taking your hands into hers. “I can’t – I don’t know what I’d do.”

“I understand.”

She lightly chuckles. “I must seem pretty foolish. I spend all my time wishing he’d just keel over and when he comes to close to it my heart aches for him.”

“Love is complicated.”

“I know.”

“Do you want Jack to see him?”

“Not if he don’t want to.” She gets up off the floor and takes a seat at John’s beside. “I hate it when he has to see his father like this.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Y/N, you saved his life.”

“Hopefully. I don’t know what kind of damage was done inside. That’s not something I can help with.”

“Well, you’re doing the best you can. I’m real grateful for it.”

The sincerity in her voice makes you choke up a little, but you push it down. “I’m sure I’m not the only one that can dress wounds.”

“It ain’t just about dressing wounds.”

You’re not sure what that means. You don’t bother to ask. The whole thing has sucked you dry, leaving you exhausted.

“Are you going to stay with him?” you ask.

“Of course I am. You go get rest.”

“Come get me if anything happens, especially if he wakes up.”

“Just go sleep, silly. You’ve worked hard enough.”

A little bit of sleep doesn’t sound so bad. You exit the tent and spot Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur gathered nearby. They’ll probably want an update, so you head over.

“How is he?” asks Dutch.

“There’s no way to be sure, but I think he might live,” you say. “It would be easier if we had something more.”

“How do you mean?” asks Arthur.

“Like an infirmary or something. Just a tent or something to give people privacy and where I can store more supplies. John’s lucky I had what I did.”

“Well, he does tend to be inexplicably lucky,” says Arthur.

Dutch grasps your shoulder. “I promise you, we will get you whatever you need.”

“Thank you. I’ll make a list if anyone is willing to into town in the morning. I’d go, but I don’t want to leave him.”

“Don’t worry about that,” says Hosea. “We’ll take care of everything.”

You go to your wagon with some paper and a pen. Really it’s Strauss’ wagon, but ever since your arrival it’s been more commonly referred to as yours since you’re in charge of medical supplies. He doesn’t seem to mind it – or at least you don’t think he does.

You mark down things you need and things you’d like to have if they’re available. It would be easier in a city like Saint Denis. Blackwater might be more civilized than Armadillo, but they still only offer a small variety of supplies.

When you’re done you hand the letter off to Dutch who, again, promises to take care of everything. The camp is mostly asleep now so you join them, curling up on your cot and drifting off.

* * *

You wake up every few hours. Each time you go and check on John and replace his bandages. Abigail is fast asleep on the floor so you try your best to step over her.

In the morning Arthur and Hosea head into town to pick up everything on your list. Tilly takes Jack out to get some flowers. The others pester you about him, asking question after question you don’t know the answers to. It isn’t until you seal yourself up in his tent that they finally leave alone.

“Abigail, you should get out and stretch,” you say.

 “I’m fine,” she says with a yawn.

“You’ve been sleeping on the floor all night. Get some fresh air.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

She gives a heavy sigh, but eventually acquiesces. She stops before leaving. “If he wakes up-”

“I’ll let you know.” You give her a comforting smile and she nods.

It’s a bit easier without her there. If she’s not sleeping you’re sure she’d be breathing down your neck. For someone who seems to care so little about her husband, Abigail sure is worried. It makes you wonder what life was like for them, back when they first fell in love. There had to be something there that kept her coming back.

You start applying fresh bandages and jump back when John stirs. He groans, reaching up to touch his wounds.

“It’s about time,” you say, continuing your work.

He picks up his head and then lets it drop back on the pillow with a sigh.

“How you feeling, John?”

“Like I just got shot,” he says in an even more gravelly voice.

“Twice, actually. You’re lucky to be alive.”

His tone is dry. “That’s me. Lucky.”

“You know, Abigail’s been in here with you all night.”

“Waiting until I wake up to rip into me, I’m sure.”

You frown. “She’s real worried.” When you’re finished you toss him a fresh shirt that he changes into. “Not that she has much reason to be.”

He pauses, halfway through pulling down the bottom of his shirt. “Excuse me?”

“Are you a religious man?”

“Not particularly.”

“Superstitious?”

“What does it matter?”

“In my line of work I’ve learned there’s nothing that can magically cure someone. No higher power, no belief, no faith that can do that. But you, John – there’s someone somewhere looking out for you. Arthur told me about all the times you just barely survived and now, again, you’re lucky to be alive. You keep getting second chance after second chance and what do you do with it? Nothing.”

He shakes his head and scoffs. “Maybe you should’ve just let me die.”

“Don’t be like that. You have a chance to turn things around. Instead you’re no better than my husband.”

“Don’t compare me to Flynn Brooks.”

“Flynn didn’t give a shit about me. He barely ever saw me unless he was in a good mood and that could change fast. But the moment I’m gone he wants nothing but to have me back.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Maybe one day I’ll fall in love with one of these sorry bastards.” You gesture to the camp outside. “Maybe – maybe I’ll marry Arthur and we’ll have babies and live long, happy live and what will Flynn have to show for it? A decomposing toddler in the ground on his ranch? A wife who has found happiness in the arms of someone else? Think about it, John.”

Determined to have the last word, you emerge from the tent irritated and flushed. You seek out Abigail where she’s knitting something while Jack plays at her feet.

“He’s awake,” you tell her.

Her eyes go wide and she quickly puts aside the sock she’s fixing. “Jack, you stay close, you hear?”

“Yes, mamma,” he says.

As she rushes over to John’s tent, you see Arthur and Hosea returning with a wagon full of goodies. They even manage to get you the tent you asked for. Susan starts ordering the girls to put it up for you.

“Nicely done, boys,” you say, hands on your hips as you inspect the merchandise.

“You, _princess_ ,” says Arthur, “are a woman of expensive taste.”

You laugh. “I have high standards. It’s not my fault that means the things I want are pricey. I appreciate this, though. With a life like this you can’t be too careful.”

“That’s for sure,” says Hosea. “Any changes?”

“Well, I picked a fight with a man that nearly died last night if that counts.”

“So the golden boy’s awake?” says Arthur.

You nod. “Abigail’s with him now. If he doesn’t develop an infection he’ll be fine. I really don’t know what she sees in him.”

“He isn’t all bad,” says Hosea. “He just has some more growing up to do.”

“He better do it soon. At some point Abigail is going to wake up and realize she deserves better.”

As if on cue Abigail storms out of the tent, cheeks red and fists at her sides. You start moving toward her, but Hosea places a hand on your shoulder.

“I’ll handle this one,” he says.

You love Abigail, but you’re also relieved someone else can deal with the anger John Marston brings out in her. You just wish she could be herself all the time. Playful, kind, empathetic. John has no idea what he’s missing out on.

Arthur helps you organize and unpack. Some crates are left sealed and placed on the wagon. Others are cracked open so you can pull out the tonics and supplies. Inside the tent you set up two cots, one you hope to sleep on so you can get away from the outdoor elements.

For the next couple of days you closely monitor John. He doesn’t say much and neither do you. Abigail steers clear of him, bringing Jack over once, but that’s it. For the most part he’s out of the woods, but the blood loss has left him greatly fatigued, so he stays in his tent most of the time reading books.

When Abigail isn’t arguing with him she’s back to her usual self. Now that you’re certain John will be fine, it’s like nothing has changed. Even when he starts venturing outside more, he avoids his family. You don’t get it. Maybe Abigail is right. Nothing is getting through that man’s head.

You do notice, however, that as you play dominoes with Abigail one evening that John is watching from where he has a beer with Bill. The moment he sees you’ve caught him, he springs up and leaves your line of sight.

“What’s wrong?” asks Abigail, following gaze.

“Nothing,” you say quickly.

You see Dutch looking at you from his tent. You give a smile and a wave that he reciprocates until Molly pulls him away, her stare sending daggers your way.


	13. the robbery of the bank of armadillo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! hope you're all well!!

_I don’t know if John would be alive right now if it weren’t for her. She gave him another chance and yet he does nothing with it. I only hope she didn’t waste her time._

* * *

John continues recovering. Even after you approve him to go back out on jobs, Abigail still insists he rest some more. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t argue. You hoped it meant he would start spending some more time with his family, but instead he goes down by the river and reads by himself. You can start to understand why he and Arthur don’t get along.

February turns into March. Dutch follows up on his offer to talk with you in the privacy of the mountains. You go up there two or three times a week, engaging in healthy, civil debate. It certainly drives Micah nuts that he doesn’t always have Dutch’s full attention and he’s not the only one. There’s no doubt in your mind that Molly hates your guts and would happily drive a knife through them if she could get away with it. You try to tell her there’s nothing to worry about, but she blows you off every time. You suppose not everyone in camp is going to like you.

In the meantime you help out with daily chores and go on jobs with Arthur and Hosea. You and Arthur do well posing as a couple and scamming people out of their money or possessions. Hosea mostly finds jobs outside of Blackwater, even going as far as Tumbleweed where they don’t know your faces.

Playing house with Arthur is fun. The more you do it, the more comfortable it becomes. Back in camp you tease one another about it. Sometimes he calls you “dear wife” and other times you call him “dear husband.” Mary-Beth comments that she thinks it’s cute. You can tell she’s the tiniest bit jealous. It’s clear she has a bit of a crush on him, but she likes any romance all the same. Not that you and Arthur are genuinely romantic, of course. It’s strictly platonic. Professional.

 _Although_ …you would not be opposed to another kiss. Not that it _has_ to happen, but if it _did_ , you certainly wouldn’t complain.

Your new set up in camp attracts Uncle’s attention. He starts repeatedly asking for medication to treat his lumbago, but you’re having none of it.

“It’s just lower back pain,” you say. “Most people your age have it.”

“People my age?” he asks, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m in the prime of my life!”

“You annoying this poor woman, Uncle?” asks Arthur, wandering over with a cigarette in between two fingers.

“What, is it now a crime to have a conversation with a pretty young lady?”

“It is if she don’t wanna talk.”

Ordinarily you’d step in but for some reason the whole thing is highly amusing. Uncle isn’t the least bit deterred or threatened despite Arthur’s efforts.

“You are a frustrating man, Arthur Morgan.”

“Here, Uncle,” you say and hand him a tonic. “This should help.” It won’t, but he doesn’t know that. Maybe if he runs up the camp’s medical bill too high Dutch or Hosea will rip into him.

He gives a dramatic curtsey. “Why thank you, kind woman. At least there’s _some_ people around here with an ounce of compassion.”

Arthur shakes his head as Uncle walks off, grabbing a bottle of beer out of an open crate.

“Was Uncle making you jealous?” you say with a smirk.

“What?” asks Arthur as he takes a drag. “Of course not.”

“So you thought I was a damsel in distress?”

“Uh-”

Your face breaks out into a full blown grin. “I’m just messing with you. You’re horribly cute when you’re flustered.”

He looks away. You swear there’s a faint blush covering his cheeks, but it’s too hard to tell. It was probably the wrong thing to say, but it just…slipped out. Besides, the both of you _have_ been teasing each other. This isn’t any different. And honestly, it’s pretty fun messing with him. For someone so gruff and serious, it only takes a few words to crack him open.

“How’s John?” he asks and you welcome the change of subject.

“Why don’t you go ask him?” you reply.

“I much prefer talking with you.”

You’re not sure if he means it as an insult to John or a compliment to you. “Oh, and what’ll happen if I die?”

“I ain’t gonna let that happen.”

“Sometimes you don’t get a choice.” He doesn’t say anything, instead staring out at the horses. The tension gets uncomfortably tight.

“Morgan!” barks Micah as he walks by. “Got a job for you.”

Arthur sighs, taking one last drag off the cigarette before stomping it out. You playfully salute him as he turns, earning an exaggerated groan that makes you chuckle. You start organizing your medicine for something to do.

He heads over to the picnic table where Micah has also summoned Bill. It’s close enough that you can hear everything.

“This better be good,” says Arthur.

“Oh, it is,” says Bill. “We’re gonna rob the Armadillo bank.”

“The Armadillo bank? That place ain’t got no more money than Uncle.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” says Micah.

“First of all, we ain’t friends. And second of all, what makes you think anything different?”

“I got a tip that a whole lot of cash just got put in the bank by Flynn Brooks,” says Bill.

The mention of Flynn gets your heart racing. You stop organizing and turn all your attention to the conversation.

Arthur pauses. “So we’re taking his money?”

“Is there a problem?” asks Micah.

Another pause. From where you stand, it looks like Arthur is doing some serious thinking. You suspect he’ll refuse, but then he shakes his head. “No.”

“Now come with us,” says Micah. “We need another gun.”

“I don’t know…”

“What? Too busy daydreaming about your woman?”

Just as he turns his head to look at you, you turn away and pretend you were busy the whole time. Your heart beats so hard and fast you worry it might explode.

“Watch it,” says Arthur lowly.

“I mean, if you ain’t gonna make a move…”

“I said watch it.”

“You in or not?” says Bill.

You glance back over to see Arthur sigh. “Fine. I’m in.”

“Good. Now we’re gonna need one of the girls.”

“What about Karen?”

“Sick,” says Micah.

That part is true. You’ve given her some bed rest, though you do theorize she’s exaggerating to keep Susan off her back. 

“Mary-Beth?” suggests Arthur.

“Too dangerous for someone as soft as her,” says Micah.

“She ain’t that soft.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of…” He trails off for a bit before saying your name.

Good news is, your heart stopped racing. Bad news is, it pretty much stopped altogether.

Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but Bill speaks first. “She ain’t never robbed a bank before, Micah!”

“Everyone’s gotta learn,” says Micah.

You can’t let this go on. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” you say, approaching them. “I couldn’t help but overhear you want me to rob a bank with you.”

Micah raises his eyebrows. “Was you overhearing or was you eavesdropping?”

“Does it matter? My answer is no.”

“You too afraid to join the big boys?” teases Micah.

His voice, his smirk, his… _him._ It all gets under your skin. You know better than to let it, but Micah is horribly insufferable. He’s damn near impossible to avoid. If there’s one thing worse than an insufferable Micah, it’s an insufferable Micah with even more ammunition to mock you. You say no, and there’s a complete guarantee he’ll never let you hear the end of it.

“No, I’m not,” you say. “In fact, I’ll do it without a cut.”

“Okay, hold on there, cowgirl-” starts Arthur.

You stand firm. “I can do it.”

“I don’t doubt that you _can._ My question is if you _should._ ”

“We need someone that knows what they’re doing,” says Bill.

“Like Micah said,” you say, holding his gaze. “Everyone’s gotta learn.”

* * *

You head out in the morning the next day. Your saddlebag is packed with medicine and tools if necessary. If there’s a John repeat, it’s best to come prepared. At least John won’t be coming along, Abigail still insisting that he rest. At some point you’re going to have to have a talk with her.

The ride to Armadillo mostly consists of the boys bickering with one another. You try several times to defuse the petty arguments, but in the end it’s futile. Bill complains about you coming along when you’re inexperienced, Micah sort of defends you in his own way (though you’re certain he only wants you along so you die in the process), and Arthur argues with both of them for the sake of arguing.

He doesn’t exactly take sides. Part of him agrees with both, you think. On one hand, he believes you’re capable of handling yourself and you’ll have the protection of the others in case you need it. On the other hand you’ve never robbed a bank – in fact, all you’ve ever violently robbed was the banking coach. The rest were con jobs, mostly put together by Hosea.

“Are we clear on the plan?” asks Micah. “Or does our delicate flower need another run through?”

“I think I liked it better when you called me ‘new blood,’” you say with a curled lip.

The plan is mostly straightforward. You go in first and distract the teller and any guards inside. Then the others come in and force their way to the vaults. It’s what Karen always does and if she can do it, so can you. That doesn’t ease the nerves, though. Most of this job is riding on you. Micah makes that _very_ clear.

“Quiet!” snaps Arthur. “We’re almost in town.”

He’s right. Armadillo is in view, only about a minute away. Maybe less. There’s a coach that rolls by, the driver tipping his hat at you and the boys.

There’s no turning back now – not unless you want to subject yourself to Micah’s endless mocking. Maybe, somehow, you can find a way to enjoy this. A good chunk of the money you’re stealing is Flynn’s and you know he likes to keep it locked up. Without his cattle and without his money, he won’t have much left. In fact, he could even go bankrupt. The thought keeps you going.

You hitch up a few buildings away. The nerves are starting to really get to you now. Arthur must have noticed as he gently grabs your arm and pulls you aside.

“You can still say no,” he tells you.

He, like Bill and Micah, are dressed nicely, but not too nice. Armadillo isn’t Blackwater and it certainly isn’t New York, or even Saint Denis. You wear a long skirt and a clean blouse with a pretty hat upon your head. There’s a revolver strapped to your thigh.

“Do you want me to?” you ask. There’s a part of you that wants him to say yes. But Arthur knows better than to make any decisions for you, even if you deeply want him to.

“I don’t matter what I want,” he says. “If you ain’t comfortable, we can head back.”

“I’ll be fine.” You don’t know what possesses you to lie like that. What have you got to prove? That Micah is an ass? Everyone already knows that. You suspect Dutch does too, deep down. There’s nothing wrong with just being the camp’s doctor and working jobs with Arthur and Hosea. Robbing banks should be left to the professionals.

“Something wrong?” asks Micah in that tone you hate so much.

All those doubts suddenly vanish when you hear his voice. “Nothing,” you say. “Let’s get this done.”

You briefly hear Arthur sigh behind you as you push past Micah and Bill.

The bank is mostly quiet when you head inside. A teller catches your eye and smiles. To your right is a guard. You swallow hard.

That burst of energy disappears. It’s all so real now. The people in here could even be dead in a few minutes, should things go wrong. Innocent people. You glance back outside for a moment. You know Arthur can restrain himself, even if he’s aggressive. But can the same be said about Bill and Micah?

You take a deep breath. It’s time to put on a show.

The tears you try to conjure don’t come so easily, but you turn yourself into a blubbering mess as you explain to the teller an exaggerated story.

“My husband!” you say. “He’s – he’s-”

The others in the bank watch you and the guard comes over, pity on his face. It only angers you.

“I just need some money to get back home!” you cry. “If he finds me-”

“It’s quite all right ma’am,” says the teller.

After ranting for a bit, the guard places his hand on your shoulder and you decide it’s time. You pull the revolver out of the thigh holster and smack the grip into his head, knocking him unconscious.

“Hands up!” you say, pointing the revolver at the teller. You’re not sure if you’re doing this right, but you’re trying your best.

The boys get the signal and come bursting in with bigger guns and wearing masks. You make the teller unlock the door, letting Arthur and Bill into the back while you and Micah watch the front.

“Nicely done, new blood,” says Micah. “I expected you to cave.”

“Well, I didn’t. I’m not as weak as you think I am.”

“Oh, I never thought you was weak.” He gives an off putting smile.

“Is this going to take any longer?” you call to the others.

Suddenly Bill emerges with the teller, who is unconscious with a red mark on his cheek. “Morgan’s working on the safes.”

“Does he need any help?”

“You know how to crack safes?”

“No.”

“Then stay up here where you’re useful.”

You frown. He’s not worth arguing with.

Arthur shouts out some updates here and there while Bill keeps watch out the front door. He quickly gets anxious and you start to get the feeling it’s taking too long.

“We should’ve been out of here by now,” says Micah.

“Hold on,” says Bill. “That don’t look like small town law.”

You look out the window and sure enough, they’ve got fancy clothes and fancy horses and fancy guns. They’re accompanied by the local law, of course, but their badges are different.

“They’re Pinkertons,” you say. “This isn’t good.”

“No shit,” says Bill. He heads to the back. “Morgan, we need to hurry this up!”

One of the Pinkertons steps forward. “We know you’re in there!” he shouts. “Come out now and we’ll spare you.”

“What do we do?” you ask.

Micah glances back and grumbles something before heading into the vaults. Far too afraid to be on your own, you follow.

In the back Arthur has placed the money into his saddlebag. It’s heavy enough to drag down his shoulder a bit.

“What’s the plan, Bill?” asks Arthur.

“I don’t know!” says Bill. “This weren’t supposed to happen!”

“Well, good going, big guy,” mocks Micah. “Now we’re trapped and about to die.” His eyes turn to you. There’s a plan forming in his head and you have a feeling you won’t like it. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” you ask slowly. 

“Unless we have a hostage situation.”

You catch on quickly, as does Arthur. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” he asks angrily.

Micah raises his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, they won’t shoot if we got a pretty girl with a gun to her head. While she’s out there, we blow up the back and get out of here.”

“And then what? We just hand her over?”

“She’ll be fine.”

If you weren't convinced Micah is setting up to die before, you sure are now. “ _She_ is right here,” you say, “and _she_ does not appreciate being talked about like _she_ isn’t here.”

“Do _you_ got a plan?” asks Micah.

“No, but I’m not doing this one. What if they figure out who I am? Flynn knows I’m with you all.”

“There ain’t no other option,” says Bill.

“This is crazy,” says Arthur.

“We can’t exactly just shoot our way out.”

“It’s better than giving up one of our own.”

They keep bickering and bickering and just vaguely you can hear the Pinkertons give their final warning. You hate it, you _hate_ it, but Micah might have a point. You might be able to trick them for long enough to make your escape.

“Fine,” you say, interrupting their arguing, “but I want Arthur to do it.”

Surprised, Arthur turns on you. “Now, hold on-”

You lean toward him and speak in a hushed voice. “Would you really like one of those two to put a gun to my head and pretend I’m a hostage?”

He glances over at them and sighs. “I don’t like this.”

“I don’t either, but right now our options are die here or get arrested and then die later. We have to try something.”

Arthur hands the saddlebag over to Bill who slings it over his shoulder. Taking out his gun, he looks down at it before shaking his head.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “But I trust you.”

“That was your first mistake.”

He takes your arm and brings you to the front, only putting on a show once the law can see. He’s careful though, tugging on you, but not too hard. You exaggerate, pretending to struggle against his grip as he pulls you out the front door and places the barrel of a loaded revolver at your temple. It’s cool against your skin and it’s hard to believe one wrong move could end your life.

Arthur holds one arm behind your back and you start up the waterworks again. His chest is lined up perfectly against your back. In any other circumstance, it might be exciting. But right now you’re worried someone is going to end up shooting you.

“Put your guns down!” Arthur calls out.

There’s muttering among them, but none of them lower their weapons.

“We can’t do that,” says one of the Pinkertons. “Let her go and we’ll consider _not_ shooting you.”

“Either you let us go, or she gets a bullet in her head. It’s your choice.”

“What do you think happens if she’s dead? You’ll lose all your leverage.”

You didn’t expect them to call his bluff. Nonetheless, your stalling is working. It won’t be long before the back of the bank blows open.

One of the deputies is on edge. He’s on the younger side, probably early twenties. He holds a rifle, but his hands shake.

“I’m serious, mister!” Arthur continues. “She worth all that money?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” asks the lead Pinkerton.

This is taking too long. What are Bill and Micah doing? You can tell Arthur is getting anxious, too. He can only keep their attention for so long.

Everything that comes next happens fast. The dynamite goes off. The nervous deputy pulls the trigger. Initially it’s aimed at Arthur, but in his panic the barrel moves left.

A shot rings out. The next thing you know is pain. It blossoms somewhere in your abdomen. You’re not entirely sure where. In fact, you’re not even sure what exactly is going on. The world gets fuzzy real quick. You can’t hear; it’s like you’re drowning. Someone shouts. More shots fire. Your legs give out and you collapse.

Each time you blink it’s like you’ve lost five minutes of your life. One moment you’re on the ground, the next you’re being dragged away. Then you’re being lifted up on a horse, your arms wrapped around someone’s waist.

You’re on the horse for a while. Several times you nearly fall off. You try to keep your eyes open, glancing behind you to see the law chasing the boys down. There’s more shouting, more gunshots. You’re in a horribly strange position as you fade in and out of consciousness. There are moments where you can make out people’s words.

You hear Bill’s voice. Micah’s. And then there’s Arthur’s. It’s panicked, loud, scared. It’s also the closest.

“We need some place to lie low!” shouts Arthur. But then it’s all black again.

This time you don’t come back.


	14. matters of the heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof sorry this took longer than expected guys. work has been busy with spring break. (also i think its super cute that you guys call reader the doc!!!)

_Bringing her along was a mistake. She’s stubborn and feels like she has something to prove and Micah is more than happy to challenge her. I only hope that’s all he wants from her._

* * *

Fort Mercer is quiet once all the Del Lobos are gone. Arthur sends Micah and Bill to clean up the bodies while he tends to you.

You’re unconscious as he carries you over his shoulder into a small room. He’s careful as he plops you down, holding your head as he lays you down on your back. Frantically, he strikes a match and lights up a lantern, placing it near you.

Your shirt is completely soaked with blood. There’s a bit of guilt and shame as he rips the buttons open and tears into your undergarments, but it’s necessary. At least that’s what he keeps repeating to himself.

He gets to work using the supplies you brought along. You go in and out of consciousness, never fully aware of what’s going on. He tries telling you it’ll be okay, that he knows it hurts but it’ll be over soon. He doesn’t know how much you hear let alone process. He _hates_ being the one to do this to you, but he can’t trust Bill or Micah to even get close to you.

There was a way you handled John that he just can’t replicate. Clarity, a sense of purpose that pushed you through all the blood and flesh. He doesn’t quite have a doctor mode to fall into.

He manages to finish, letting out a breath as he drops the bullet down on the ground and cauterizes the wound. Afterwards you fall into a sleep and he patches you up.

For now, you’re alive. That’s what matters. Since you haven’t bled out yet, he figures you still have a fighting chance. Now the problem is waiting: waiting to leave the fort in the morning, waiting to find out if you’ll even make it through the night. He could even get you back to camp and still watch you die. The thought of it churns his stomach and his chest tightens. It’s feelings he can work through later. Right now he needs to be here for you because Bill is far too much of an idiot and Micah is…well, Micah.

He sits with his back against the wall of the small room, one leg straight and the other bent. His hands are covered in your blood and he realizes it’s on his clothes, too.

The whole robbery was a mistake. He should’ve spoken out against it or asked someone else to come along.

The door opens and Micah casually strolls through.

“How’s our new blood?” he asks.

The joking tone of his voice sparks a fire in Arthur. Micah has always gotten on his nerves, but he’s reaching a breaking point. If he’s not careful, he might just snap Micah’s neck.

“This is your goddamn fault, Micah!” he snaps, getting to his feet.

He raises his hands, taking a step back. “It’s not like I shot her.”

“You might as well have. If you hadn’t insisted she come along-”

“Brother, she made her own choice. In case you’ve forgotten, she’s quite the modern woman.”

Arthur’s blood only boils hotter and hotter. He’s not sure what he wants Micah to say, but it sure as hell isn’t this.

“You’re lucky I don’t just skin you alive here and now,” says Arthur gruffly.

“Get off your high horse, Morgan. Don’t you see what’s happening? She’s got you wrapped around her finger and you ain’t the only one.”

Arthur shakes his head and steps away. That idiot doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“How do we know she didn’t bring the Pinkertons on us?” Micah continues.

Arthur blinks and turns back. “Excuse me?”

“It all makes sense.”

“They put a goddamn bullet in her!” He gestures toward your bloodied, bandaged torso.

“But they didn’t _kill_ her.”

“You better get back out there before I kill _you_.”

There’s a beat of silence before Micah starts laughing. “When she turns you in, don’t come crying to me, cowpoke.”

He waits until Micah is gone before returning to his spot next to you. His heart is racing now. There’s no doubt in his mind that Micah is wrong. That asshole had a grudge against you and maybe even wants to get you killed.

Arthur knows you.

He’s seen the pain in your eyes when you talk about Flynn. He’s seen the way you switch when the topic turns to him. He’s seen the lengths Flynn will go to get you back. You’re not someone to bite the hand that feeds you.

Micah doesn’t see that. He probably never will. He wasn’t the one sick as a dog in Strawberry while you nursed him back to health. He isn’t there when you’re laughing and joking or intensely reading a novel. To Micah you’re nothing but an obstacle to overcome on his way to Dutch’s affection.

Arthur _knows_ you.

* * *

It’s a long and agonizing night. Bill and Micah stand guard for most of it while Arthur watches over you. He can’t stand the idea of Micah being left with you, even if Bill is there in the same room. That man sleeps like a rock. If Micah got up to any funny business, Bill would be none the wiser.

At some point he dozes off, awaking with a start. You rouse next to him, shifting under the blanket he placed over you. You reach out to him as he rubs his eyes.

“Arthur?” you ask. Your voice is rough and hoarse.

“I’m here,” he says. He’s never been so relieved to hear your voice.

“I got shot.”

“You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

He frowns. “The hell are you sorry for?”

“For messing it up.”

After a pause he shakes his head and gives a dry laugh. “You are ridiculous.” When you try to sit up he pushes you back down. “You gotta rest, princess.”

“What happened to the money?”

He almost laughs. You got shot and nearly bled out, but you’re worried about the _money_? “Don’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. I almost died for it.”

“You could _still_ die for it.”

“So do we have it?”

He sighs. “Yes.”

“Good. And how are you?”

“Well-” He lays down next to you, his head against the cold floor. “-you scared the shit outta me.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. Bill and Micah?”

“Unfortunately alive.”

He expects you to reprimand him. It’s what Mary would do. But you’re not Mary. Instead you give a soft, tired laugh.

“Sounds like a nightmare. Where are we anyway?”

“Fort Mercer.”

“That’s pretty far from home.”

“Couldn’t risk going back to camp. We got lawmen looking for us all across Cholla Springs.”

You close your eyes and exhale. “This is a mess.”

“Jobs go wrong sometimes.”

“You don’t need to try and cheer me up. I guess one good thing is the Pinkertons probably think we’re just some local robbers.”

Arthur isn’t too sure. What are the chances that Pinkertons just happen to be in Armadillo of all places? He glances at you, remembering what Micah said. No. You wouldn’t turn them in, not after everything. It’s just luck running out, civilization catching up to them. If they don’t head west soon, it might be too late.

You try sitting up again and when he tries to stop you, you push his hand away. “I’ll be okay.”

He nods, still uneasy. He watches as you examine his work, touching the bandages and flinching.  It actually manages to make him a little nervous. You aren’t the first person he’s patched up, but you’re the first medical professional. There’s a part of him that wants you to be impressed with him.

“Not bad, _cowpoke_ ,” you say.

He grunts. “You’re lucky I like you.”

This makes you laugh until you wince, gripping your abdomen and laying back down. It’s too dark to tell, but he swears there’s a bit of a blush on your cheeks.  

Then there’s a beat of thick silence. “Thank you, Arthur,” you say. “I’d be dead without you.”

He thinks of all the times you’ve saved his life. “I’m only returning the favor.”

“I should’ve never listened to Micah.”

“Yeah, well, what happened, happened. What matters is that you’re alive.”

“I feel like an idiot. I let him get me riled up.”

“He does have a way of doing that with people.”

“I just don’t understand why Dutch allows him to stay.”

Arthur shrugs. “He must see something in him.” He’s asked himself the same question for months. Bringing you in makes sense. You’ve saved his life, John’s life, and you’ll save many more. But Micah? Sure, he’s a pretty good gunslinger. But he’s also a pain in the ass.

“If he sees something in Micah then I’m afraid of what he sees in me,” you say. “Does every innocent girl that comes into the Van der Linde gang becoming a murdering thief?”

“More or less.”

You laugh and then groan in pain.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Just dandy. I think I’m going to rest some more.”

He nods, moving away to give you some privacy. You lay down on your side and within a few minutes, you’ve drifted off to sleep.

He lets you rest until dawn. Once the sun is up, it’s time to put the plan into motion. Micah and Bill will get the law’s attention and drive them further west while Arthur gets you back to camp. They’ll hide out for a few days before coming back – that is if they don’t kill each other first.

He can tell you’re still pretty weak when he helps you up on his horse, Star following behind. You wrap your arms around his torso and place the side of your face against his back. He feels a bit guilty for enjoying it. Maybe one day you can be on the back of his horse, your arms around him because you want to be close, not because you’re close to passing out.

The ride feels longer than usual. Micah and Bill bicker here and there, but Arthur stays quiet for your sake. Your grip starts slipping eventually and you lean into him more and more. His stomach drops.

Camp isn’t too far off now. You just have to make it.

He feels your grip slipping just as he breaks through the trees. You fall from Boadicea too fast for him to catch you. There’s a distinct, painful _thump_ when you hit the ground.  

Arthur doesn’t bother hitching his horse. He’s in panic mode, dropping down next to you and checking for a heartbeat. Relieved to find a pulse, he scoops you up in his arms bridal style as the others rush over.

“What happened?” asks Dutch.

“She got shot,” says Arthur. His heart beats so hard against his chest he thinks it might actually explode. “She needs help.”

“Bring her over here, Mr. Morgan,” says Susan, heading toward your tent.

He carries you in and gently lays you down on a cot. Susan, Tilly, and Abigail quickly start doting on you, pushing Arthur out and sealing up the tent before he can protest. Irritation flares. Why can’t he be in there when you need him? Or, if he’s being honest, when _he_ needs _you_.

Reality sets in. The possibility you might not make it is high. You’ve clearly got an infection. Infections are hard to bounce back from. It’s possible, but you need a miracle and Arthur doesn’t believe in miracles.

Dutch approaches him and places a hand on his shoulder. “You alright, son?”

Arthur takes a second before he nods.

“I’m sure she’ll be just fine. She’s a fighter, just like the rest of us.”

He thinks of everything you’ve gone through. Flynn. Your son. Not only do you deserve to live, but you don’t deserve to die by a bullet wound because Micah pressured you for a job.

“That she is,” he agrees.

But just because you’re a fighter doesn’t mean you can make it through. Nature is bad business. It takes and takes and what does he get back? There’s nothing that can make up for losing you.

Hosea tries to distract him, offering to go fishing or play some dominoes. It feels wrong to participate in recreational activity when you’re on your deathbed. What if he leaves camp and you pass without him there? What if he doesn’t get a chance to say a final goodbye?

He knows what you’d say if you heard any of this. _You’re being ridiculous, Arthur. I’m not worth all the hassle._ But _God_ …you _are._ He hates that you can’t see it. Is that what years with Flynn has done to you? Stripped you of your self-worth?

After about an hour of pacing around camp and occasionally, and impatiently, sitting on his cot, the girls finally let him in.

He goes in slow, aware he takes up much of the space inside. Abigail is next to you, covering your body with a blanket and readjusted the pillow beneath your head. She glances up and offers him a comforting twitch of the lips.

“How is she?” he asks.

“She’s alive,” she says.

Not overly optimistic, but he’ll take it.

Abigail places a cold towel on your forehead. She glances up at him with a knowing look.

“I know you’re sweet on her, Arthur,” she says.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know _what_ to say. The right thing would be to deny it, both to Abigail and himself. What he feels has to be nothing more than infatuation. You’re pretty, you’re nice, you’re sweet to him. What’s not to like?

But instead he looks down, embarrassed. He’s felt infatuation before. Hell, he even once felt it for Abigail. With you, it’s different. When you smile his stomach flutters. When he looks at you his chest tightens. He remembers it all from when he fell in love with Mary all those years ago.

“You’re a good man, Arthur,” says Abigail.

He scoffs. “I don’t know about that.” He can tell Abigail isn’t happy with his answer, but it’s the one she’s getting.

“You should go rest.”

“No, I’ll stay with her for the night.”

“But-”

“I want to.”

At first he think she’ll protest more, but she glances between you and him before nodding. “Alright. If you need anything, just holler.”

He nods and waits until she’s out of the tent to properly look at you. Right now you’re peaceful in your sleep. He takes your hand in his. You skin is hot. _Too_ hot. If your temperature gets any higher, you might just die from the fever.

It hurts him, but nowhere near as much as it hurts you. Do you know how bad you are? How close to _death_ you are? It’s one thing when it’s your own life. When you’re gone, you don’t have to worry about how the others keep going. You could pass in your sleep without a single worry.

He switches between blaming Micah and blaming himself, never sticking to one more than a few minutes and mostly blaming both. Sometimes at his lowest, angriest points he blames _you_. You shouldn’t have been so stubborn, you shouldn’t have fallen for Micah’s bait. Now that he knows he can get you to go along with a bank robbery and play hostage, what’s next?

* * *

It’s another long night where he gets very little sleep. You’ve shifted in your sleep and when he wakes in the morning he checks again for a pulse. Still alive. He can breathe.

“You got my money, Morgan?” Micah asks when he and Bill get back in the early afternoon.

“I got your goddamn money,” says Arthur, handing over Micah’s share. “And since you care so much I reckon you’d like to know she’s still alive.”

Micah starts counting out the cash. “Then why you still got a stick up your ass?”

It isn’t worth the fight and Arthur is just too tired. He waves Micah away who just laughs in response.

It takes days for your fever to start going down. At night it’s always worse and Arthur is on edge, but with each day your face is cooler and cooler.

He’s spends as much time with you as he can. Hosea forces him out on jobs here and there just to get him out of camp, but it’s hard for him to focus. If his mind isn’t occupied completely, his thoughts go back to you. It’s easier to think about you constantly than it is to forget for even a minute. The moment he remembers you lying in bed, a step away from death, his heart sinks and he thinks he might throw up.

You’re awake every now and then, sometimes lucid enough for a conversation. There’s one night where you’re having trouble falling asleep because of the pain, so you ask him to read to you.

“I ain’t much of a storyteller,” he says, flipping through the pages of _Frankenstein._

“I have faith in you,” you say, your voice tired and slightly muffled by your arm as you lay on your side.

He glances at you, your eyes already drifting closed, and decides to suck it up. You’ll probably be asleep for most of it anyway.

Sitting on a crate near your bed, he starts the first page.

After about twenty pages, he’s certain you’re asleep. Your eyes are firmly closed and your breathing has calmed. It’s a relief, considering it’s close to three in the morning. Most of the camp is asleep themselves save for Uncle who is drunkenly singing from the round table by himself.

Carefully he gets up, wincing when the crate creaks enough that you stir in your sleep. He freezes, watching you before he moves again. The boards under his feet are no better, but he pushes through it. Just as he pushes aside the flap you speak.

“Arthur?” you ask. His heart jumps into his throat.

“Yes?” he says.

“Can you lay with me?”

At first he wants to say no. He hasn’t shared a bed with anyone since Mary. It’s almost like he’s betraying her, in a way. It sounds ridiculous, but he still feels devoted to her in some way. If she came into camp and asked him to run away, he’d probably say yes. But that’s the key word, isn’t it? _Probably._ There’s newfound doubt in his mind. He couldn’t say yes without thinking about you. He can’t run away with another woman without thinking about you. To a reasonable man, it would all be clear. But Arthur Morgan is a fool and he knows it.

He nods and carefully lays down next to you, placing one arm behind his head. He’s not sure what makes him so nervous. It isn’t the first time he’s been this close to you and your back is to him. There are much more intimate ways to lay. But at the same time you invited him into your bed, to lay close to you and share your personal space.

Against his better judgement he starts thinking about other ways to share a bed. He thinks about being able to turn on his side and wrap his arm around you and pull you close. He thinks about kissing your neck and you, half-asleep, turning around to kiss him back. He still remembers the gentle touch of your lips from outside the art gallery. Sometimes he still feels it in his dreams, just vaguely. Those are his good dreams, marked by smooth skin and soft touches.

There’s shame that comes with it. You’re still technically a married woman. Not to mention you’re _right next to him._ It’s inappropriate, even if it’s just in his own head. It’s probably best if he excuses himself, even if it’s just to save himself from the potential embarrassment should his thoughts continue down this road.

He does his best not to wake you as he removes himself from your tent and breathes in the fresh air. It helps a bit. He heads for the river, dodging a drunk and singing Swanson who is intent on following him until Susan starts yelling.

Down by the water he sits on a downturned log and fiddles with the edge of his hat. He’s at a complete loss. If this is going where he thinks it is, he’s already doomed, isn’t he? This isn’t like Mary, whose family outlawed an outlaw. You’re just like him. You’re a robber and a killer. You’re not afraid to get your hands dirty. That should make it easier, shouldn’t it? There’s no big ol’ daddy to step in and sweep you away.

But he supposes he understands. Someone like you deserves better than someone like him. What could he give you besides a life of crime and running from the law? You should be working toward your dream, living a good, honest life.

“You alright there, Arthur?”

He turns. It’s Mary-Beth, carrying her journal.

“Oh, I’m just fine, Mary-Beth,” he says. He gives a tired smile and starts to get up.

“No, sit. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He gives a laugh and places his hat back on his head. “It’s quite alright. I should be heading back anyway.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem…distant.”

Is it that obvious? “Nothing you need be worrying about.”

She sits down next to him as he lights up a cigarette. “Is it to do with what happened?”

He doesn’t say anything and apparently that’s enough of an answer.

“Matters of the heart are complicated.”

He takes a drag. “Matters of the heart?”

“Of course.” She leans forward as if sharing a secret. “But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

“You and a few other people,” he says under his breath. How many people know about this? More importantly, do _you_ know?

She places a hand on his arm. “Just give it time. You’ll figure things out eventually.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You do. You’re a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for. Just let yourself fall in love and don’t think about the consequences.”

She makes it sound so simple. If he was anyone but Arthur Morgan, maybe that might work. But his… _line of work_ doesn’t have a high survival rate.

“Life ain’t like one of your books.” His failed relationship with Mary is proof of that.

“Well, no, but sometimes it can give the greatest advice, even if you don’t realize it.”

After a few more minutes, he puts out his cigarette and bids Mary-Beth farewell. Back at camp he’s surprised to see Abigail helping you out of our tent and rushes forward.

“Thought you was supposed to be on bed rest,” he says.

“I am, but I’m just so tired of being cooped up.”

He and Abigail help you to the round table and set you down on a chair. It takes a lot of out of you, but he sees it as a good sign. You’re smiling, your eyes are bright, you’re alive. You’ve made it through the worst of it. You can only go up from here.

He steps back as others come and say hello, the girls gathering around to talk with you. You’re clearly tired, but you’re still animated as you tell them all what happened. He smiles to himself when you nearly smack Karen in the face as you move your hands around.

When he returns to his tent, he spots the picture of Mary. The happiness he’s found suddenly turns sour. He knows how this story will end.

Mary-Beth was wrong. Matters of the heart aren’t complicated, because he doesn’t have a heart to give.


	15. dinner and a movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait again! work has been crazy but hopefully i can start getting ahead again lol. thanks for sticking around!

_I have only just realized that I am far more of a fool than I ever thought. For the first time, I do not think of Mary._

* * *

Recovery is hard.

It’s one thing to fix up a bullet wound. You know the tools you need, the steps to follow. But healing from one is another. Once the fever goes and the infection clears, you’re still fatigued. Arthur helps you more than most, though the others pitch in, particularly Abigail, Dutch, and Hosea.

It isn’t until the end of March that you really start feeling like yourself again. Bill comes around and gives a half-apology. It takes you by surprise, though it’s less of an “I’m sorry” and more of a “sucks for you.” It’s better than nothing you suppose.

Unlike Bill, Micah gives no apology. He doesn’t exactly defend himself, either. He states facts. No, he didn’t shoot you. No, he didn’t make you pretend to be a hostage. He’s sickeningly clever. He knows how to distance himself from what happened so he doesn’t have to take the blame.

When you do start feeling better you go up for some trips in the mountains with Dutch. Mostly the both of you talk philosophy or tell tales of your pasts. Dutch is quite the storyteller, dramatic and emotional. He would’ve made a fine actor. You don’t have as many good stories to tell. You’ve met people from other countries, immigrating or travelling. There’s been some interesting cases your father took care of, but it doesn’t beat the tension of shootouts or robberies. Sometimes you wonder if he’s just messing with you, trying to see how far he can go with your suspension of disbelief.

Even John stops by, giving you some advice on how to handle recovery from a gunshot wound. He is a self-described expert.

And, of course, there’s a building resentment toward Micah. You already had a horribly unfavorable opinion of him, but your distaste only grows. He offers no apologies, no sympathies. You hear him make some jokes around the campfire at your expense when Arthur isn’t around to hear them. Despite his big talk, you think he’s afraid of Arthur, even if it’s just a little. A couple of other stand up for you and eventually a drunk Lenny socks him right in the jaw.

The money from the bank job is quite a bit, but not enough to take everyone west. Dutch gives a speech about it to anyone that’ll listen. _One more job_ , he keeps saying. One big score and everyone will be able to live free from the constraints of civilization, or something like that. Arthur still gives you your cut, even after you offer to not take it. It’s over one thousand. You don’t know if you’ve ever held that much money.

March bleeds into April and it feels like that big score is never going to come. You keep working jobs with Arthur and Hosea, but they just don’t pay enough. Plus, you swear Bill has been taking from the box. You can’t prove it, but he just looks suspicious.

You help the girls with some of the laundry in your free time. They mostly talk about books, gossip, fantasies. There’s some things you know about them now that you wish you didn’t. This goes double for Karen and Sean’s sex life.

“I just wish he wouldn’t talk so much,” she says.

“Maybe you should just restrain him,” says Tilly while the others giggle.

You get uncomfortable. There’s a lot of things you’ve gotten used to since joining the gang, but being open like this isn’t one of them.

“What are the men like in New York?” asks Mary-Beth.

It takes a few second before you realize the question is directed at you. “Oh,” you say, “the same, I guess.”

“Nonsense,” says Karen.

They go onto to discuss who they think is the most attractive man in camp. Even Abigail participates, throwing John under the bus. You don’t think he’s _that_ ugly.

Tilly says Javier. There’s a mummer of approval, though you keep quiet. The whole thing feels weird.

“What do you think?” Jenny asks you.

They turn to you and your face heats up. “Me?” You shake your head and look down. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll bet it’s Arthur,” says Karen.

This makes your heart jump into your throat. “What? This is stupid. Attractiveness is subjective and can be measured in several ways.”

“Don’t pull that city talk. Just tell the truth.”

“I wouldn’t really call that city talk.”

“Maybe it’s because she thinks _Uncle_ is the most handsome,” teases Mary-Beth. The others laugh, save for Abigail who shoots you an apologetic smile.

You return it with a frown. “This isn’t fair.”

“The men do this all the time,” says Karen. “It’s perfectly fair.”

It suddenly occurs to you that they really might be talking about others, including you, behind your back. You suppose it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad or embarrassing. Friends talk, right? That’s what you’re all doing right now. But Flynn used to talk, too. Sometimes he thought you couldn’t hear him. At his drunkest, the things he said about you made your stomach churn. You aren’t even sure he viewed you as a person.

Arthur wouldn’t do that, though. Micah might. Maybe even Bill or Uncle. But not Arthur. Or at least you hope so.

“So we’re in agreement she has a thing for Arthur?” says Karen.

In what feels like an act of betrayal, everyone agrees with her. Even Abigail! What are they seeing that you aren’t?

“Hold on, what?” you say, shocked. “I never said that.”

“It’s clear as day!”

She’s talking far too loud. Arthur is out with Hosea and Dutch, but Uncle is close and he has no qualms with spilling secrets. Molly could overhear too and use it to get you out of the way. The possibilities are endless.

“He’s just a friend,” you say. “Nothing more.”

“You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to us,” says Karen.

The conversation goes elsewhere, but your blood is rushing through your ears and your head is spinning. You look back on all your interactions with Arthur at camp, hoping to find whatever it is that made them think this. Maybe you can do something different and throw their scent off. But all you come up with is eating some meals together, sharing morning coffee, talking at the campfire when others have gone to sleep. You enjoy his company and you enjoy his. It’s not a big deal.

* * *

When the three of them get back in the evening you get a sharp pain in your chest. The tension is high as you wait to see if someone says anything to him. It’s been on your mind off and on all day and it’s _killing_ you. It’s stupid. What does it matter anyway? But it still makes you nervous.

While Bill tells a story around the campfire, you sit inside your tent going through a medical book. The flap opens and Arthur steps inside. Your stomach flip flops. He almost looks…bashful?

“How are things?” he asks.

“Things are fine,” you say.

He looks like he wants to say something. Not a good sign. You brace yourself for the worst.

“I was wondering, on the account of you not getting out much, that you might like to attend a show with me.”

You blink. That's far from what you expected. “A show?” you ask slowly, both relieved and stressed at the same time. “What kind of show?”

“At the theater in Blackwater.” He gestures toward town.

“Oh, like a play? That would be fun.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it fun.”

“Then why ask me to come?”

“Because you’re all artsy and whatnot. I mean, if you don’t want to-”

“I already said yes and I’m not changing my mind. You shouldn’t either. It wouldn’t hurt for you to be more cultured.”

He fakes offense. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying, cowboy life isn’t particularly…stimulating.”

“You know, you’re welcome to head back to the big city at any time.”

“And who will dress your wounds?”

“I think we can manage.”

“Oh, when I’m dead, _then_ you’ll see.”

* * *

The show is in the evening the next day. He says he’s taking you to eat afterwards. The whole thing makes you nervous. You keep it secret from everyone except Abigail who respects you enough to keep it to herself. She teases you about it, pointing out that “just friends” don’t go to shows like this. What does she know? John doesn’t take her to do anything. She’s out of touch. Arthur’s just doing something nice for you.

You dress up, though Arthur doesn’t get the hint – or maybe he just doesn’t want to. It doesn’t matter. You learned to stop caring about what others think a long time ago.

It’s both strange and exciting to sit next to Arthur in the theater and watch a performance of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. He gets a bit antsy part way through it, but he perseveres and says nothing. You give him credit for trying – he could’ve easily just gotten you a ticket and left you there alone. He _chose_ to spend time with you, even if he doesn’t enjoy it as much as you do.

It’s just nice to do something normal with him. Something that doesn’t involve robbery and murder. He has it in him to be domestic. It's a nice change. 

By the time it’s over and you’re back outside, he looks ready for a nap.

“So, what did you think?” you ask.

“It was…something.”

“You have such a way with words. Thank you, by the way. I appreciate you suffering for me.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“You don’t need to lie to me. Theater isn’t for everyone. My father _loved_ it. He took me to shows every time he could.”

“Your father was a more patient man than I am.”

“Maybe it’s more of an acquired taste.”

He takes you to a nearby restaurant for dinner. It’s kind of funny, the juxtaposition. Almost everyone inside is dressed nicely while he’s in that old, patched up jacket of his and stained pants. People side eye him a bit. Maybe a few people recognize him, but aren’t brave enough to admit it.

Despite all this he eats like a gentleman. You’ve seen it in camp, too. The most he does is drinks up Pearson’s stew when there’s not much left to scoop up with the spoon. Mostly he’s polite, chews with his mouth closed, makes sure he’s swallowed before he speaks.

What you ordered is something you’ve never had before. It’s some kind of meat, dipped in some kind of sauce, and it looks horrible, but you’re in a daring mood. It turns out to be _delicious._

“This is disgusting. I love it.” You hear him laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“Better be nothing. You should try it.” He’s hesitant so you add, “I’ll pay you fifty dollars.”

This gets his interest. Typical. “Fifty dollars?”

“Yeah. Or are you too scared?”

“I ain’t too proud to say I’m not. But if there’s money involved…” He takes a bite and his eyebrows scrunch together. “You know what, I think they might be onto something here. Pearson’s got some serious competition.”

“I know! Maybe I should sneak some back. I hate eating the same stew over and over again anyway.”

“What, not _stimulating_ enough for you?”

“You think you’re being funny, but there’s so much more variety in a city. Or a town. Or most homes. Where’s the spice? The flavor?”

“Maybe you can get him a cookbook for his birthday.”

“Can you imagine how well that’d go over? I’ll get you the money back at camp.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Are you sure? We made a deal.”

“I’m sure.”

You let it drop. It’s unlike Arthur to turn down money. You’re not even sure what to say. You fill your mouth with the meat-sauce concoction so you don’t have to try. Arthur is always far more comfortable with silence than you are. Eventually you cave.

“What are you going to do when we head west?” you ask just for something to talk about.

He shrugs. “Haven’t done much thinking about it. Probably kick back and enjoy the sun. You?”

It’s a funny image in your head. Arthur, his skin sun-kissed, feet up on the railing of a porch. He’s far too restless for it, even if he doesn’t realize it.

“I don’t know,” you say, “but I know I’ll never live on a ranch. Not again.”

“Well, you might wanna take that up with Dutch.”

“No one says we all have to live together. I could have a little farm a mile away or something. Maybe I’ll meet some lost tourist and fall in love.”

He awkwardly clears his throat. “Would you get married again?”

“If it was the right person, I would think about it.”

“And what’s the right person?”

“Arthur Morgan, are you trying to set me up with someone?”

“Nah, just curious.”

His curiosity makes your heart flutter. It’s so stupid. He’s not the first one to ask you. It shouldn’t make you so nervous. 

“I don’t think I have anything in mind anymore. On the surface Flynn seemed great. It’s what’s underneath you have to be careful of.”

And what’s underneath Arthur is someone special, you think. He’s nothing like Flynn. He’s honest, caring, strong-willed. He doesn’t exactly have a good set of morals, but at this point neither do you. He respects you, he treats you well, he’s perfect.

Then why does that scare you?

“Do you have a type?” you ask in an attempt to turn the tables.

He gives a laugh. “I don’t think that matters much.”

“Why?”

“I’m long past marriage.”

“Stop acting like an old man. You’re not expired.”

Now Arthur is visibly uncomfortable. _Serves him right._ You know this is a touchy topic for him, so you back off. At some point he needs to get over this, get over Mary, but that’s not your decision. He needs to do it on his own time.

The thought of him still holding onto her makes your stomach churn. It isn’t fair. You know so little about Mary. Sure, she broke his heart, but who’s to say Arthur didn’t make it happen? Abigail speaks highly of her and she likes you. That has to say something, right? But then again, Tilly doesn’t like her. Or Susan. Actually, most of the women at camp don’t like her. Even John has made a negative comment in passing, but he doesn’t have many nice things to say about the mother of his child, so his judgement isn’t worth much. Still, you have to wonder.

You think about what Karen said. _It’s clear as day!_ Here you are, thinking about Arthur’s former fiancé, getting…jealous. You’re jealous. Friends can get jealous, but not like this. Not with romance.

This means it’s time for a topic change. The more you avoid it, the faster it’ll go away.

You wrack your brain for something else to say, but you mind keeps going back to the same thing over and over again. _Arthur. Arthur. Arthur._ You’re suddenly aware of everything your body is feeling. There’s sweat on the back of your neck, your hands shake a bit. The nerves get so bad you’re worried he might notice.

Looking at him doesn’t make anything better. He’s not your type, but God he is unreasonably attractive. Why haven’t you seen that before? He’s always been handsome, but he’s grown out his beard and hair a bit. Without his jacket you can see muscles underneath his sleeves.

 _Stop it. Think of something that repulses you._ You can answer that quickly.

“Micah,” you say, realizing you said it out loud once it happened.

“Micah?” Arthur asks.

 _Think quick!_ “I – I-” _Quicker!_ “I think Micah tried to kill me.” _Good. Keep going. “_ I feel so stupid for falling for it. There were a few times I thought about it, but I honestly didn’t think he would risk it like that.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t do nothing wrong.”

“It’s easy for you to say. I feel like an idiot. I’m supposed to be smarter than this.”

“Micah has a way of bringing out the stupid side in all of us.”

“Not you, though.”

“Maybe I’m just used to it after all these years with John.”

“John can be an ass, but he’s not like Micah.” You sigh and lean on the table. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t even know why I piss him off so much.”

“Don’t even bother worrying about it. He ain’t worth it.”

“Can you just…can you watch my back? I don’t trust him.”

“I’ll always have your back.”

Your cheeks heat up and you keep your gaze down as you finish your meal. “Thank you, Arthur. That means a lot to me.”

With a crisis averted, you get back to camp in the early evening. Dutch quickly pulls Arthur aside to talk. You briefly hear mention of a ferry. The girls collectively throw you a suggestive look, but you brush it off and head toward your tent where you seal yourself away.

That night your dreams take an interesting and embarrassing turn. At first it’s innocent, sharing kisses with Arthur while he holds you. But then your clothes come off and things get _far_ too heated. When you wake up in the middle of the night, there’s a bit of sweat pooled in the dip between your collar and throat.

It’s hard to look at him after that. He’s there in the morning, getting a cup of coffee and chatting with Abigail. Ordinarily you’d join them, but the dream is still so fresh in your mind. It feels like you violated him in some way. _It wasn’t my choice_ , you tell yourself. You still don’t feel any better.

Instead you head to Star in hopes of going for a solo ride. It’ll help to clear your head before talking to him.

“May I have a word?” Hosea asks from the table, setting down his newspaper.

You stop, eyeing Star and thinking about just bolting. But that’s rude and Hosea hasn’t done anything wrong. “Of course,” you say. “Is there something wrong?”

“Quite the contrary.” He sounds pretty proud of himself. “I think I’ve stumbled on something rather lucrative.”

“Do tell.”

“It’s a real estate scam. There’s a piece of land in New Austin up for auction in the beginning of May. I figure you and Arthur can play house once more and raise the price. Then I sweep in and offer for some angry, dejected loser to buy it at a cheaper price. We get his money and we head west.”

“You sure it’s worth it?”

“A hundred and ten percent.”

Hearing Hosea scheme is always fun. He gets way too into, particularly the role playing.

“That’s a lot. Have you spoken with Arthur?”

“Yes.”

“And Dutch?”

“Yes, but…he’s far more invested in this ferry job.”

You sit down at the table. “You aren’t?”

“I just don’t know if it’s worth the risk. Something about it doesn’t feel right.”

“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

“That remains to be seen. In the meantime-” A coughing fit interrupts him. He nearly doubles over.

“Are you alright?” you ask, leaning toward him.

He waves away your concern. “I’m – I’m alright.” It takes him several seconds to catch his breath.

“You don’t seem alright. I hear you coughing up a storm in the middle of the night.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“I don’t need a doctor to tell me I’m dying.”

You frown. “Normally people don’t speak so bluntly about it.”

“I don’t have time for sugarcoating.”

“You know, I’m sure I have some remedies for you. You shouldn’t have to deal with that everyday.”

“I’ve dealt with it every day for years. There’s no need to fuss over me more than you already have.”

“Hosea, it’s my job to help. I _want_ to help.”

He pats your knee in a fatherly way. “I don’t think I have that much longer, anyway. There are others that need you more.”

“Don’t be a hero.”                            

“Oh, you’ll know if I’m being a hero.” He clears his throat with one more cough. “How are _you_ doing?”

The change in conversation is less than graceful. You let it happen anyway. “A little sore yet, but a lot better. I’d be dead if it weren’t for Arthur.”

“He says the same of you.”

“Well, it’s true. Did he ever tell you how sick he was in Strawberry?”

“I do think he left out a few details. You might want to refresh my memory.”

You relay the whole story to him, keeping out a few things here and there so not to embarrass Arthur _too much._ Hosea enjoys it and you know he’s memorizing everything to bring up later.

Soon Arthur wanders over. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” says Hosea. “Just sharing some stories.”

This automatically makes Arthur suspicious. “Hosea…”

He turns to you. “Did I ever tell you about this time Arthur thought he’d stolen a bracelet with a dozen diamonds? Turned out they were all fake!”

“Is this old man bothering you?”                                      

You laugh. “Oh, yes. Hosea, can you get rid of him?”

Arthur isn’t too pleased, but he’s not mad either. “You’re hilarious. He talk to you about the real estate scam?”

“Yes, actually. It’ll just be us three, then, right?”

“Dutch don’t seem too interested. He thinks there’s a lot of money on that boat.”

You suddenly understand Hosea’s apprehension. Dutch always has a plan. It isn’t like him to put so much stock into something he isn’t even certain about. “He thinks? He’s not even sure?”

“Sometimes you gotta take risks. You can either win big or get hanged.”

It’s not a risk you’d be willing to take. Sure, there’s the risk of death or arrest on every job you do, even the real estate scam. But there’s more control over it. There’s a solid plan. You know there’s gold at the end of the rainbow.

Maybe Hosea has a point. The ferry job doesn’t sound as great as Dutch must think it is. Then again, maybe the bank job just has you jittery. Jobs can go bad fast.

“Either way, I have confidence in this scam,” says Hosea.

Arthur laughs. “Spoken like a true conman.”


	16. the last day in the west

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof thanks so much for waiting guys. i really meant to get this out like two weeks ago but we got a puppy!! and he's quite a handful so i haven't gotten as much of a chance to work on this chapter. hope it's worth the wait!

_Soon we will be heading west and into new lives. No more law, no more Pinkertons, no more Flynn Brooks. I hope she and I find peace._

* * *

Time flies as preparation for both jobs goes underway. Micah and Dutch take care of the ferry job, getting everything ready while you, Arthur, and Hosea make plans for the real estate scam.

It’s always fun working with Hosea. He’s excited about the job and maybe a little too confident it’ll work. Dutch doesn’t share it. You hear them quietly arguing in Dutch’s tent about it from time to time. His faith is in the ferry job, but Hosea sticks to his guns, believing something is off about it. You start to think so, too. Maybe Hosea’s just rubbing off on you.

Arthur doesn’t really take a side. You can tell he’s leaning toward Hosea, but his undying loyalty to Dutch prevents him from saying anything blatant. That loyalty is going to get him killed.

The plan is for part of the group to carry out the ferry job and head out west afterwards to lay low. Then the next day you, Arthur, and Hosea go through with your scam and everyone reunites out west. It sounds solid, but you’re still horribly nervous. Soon it’ll be your last day in West Elizabeth and your life will change all over again. Dutch excitedly talks about California and other places out west. It’s even father from New York than you’ve been before. There’s still something scary about it.

Once you’re done with the jobs, what happens between you and Arthur? Much of your relationship is based off of conning the rich out of their riches. It’s a thought that lingers far too often and far too long. _Don’t be ridiculous_ , you tell yourself. _You’ll still be friends._ Though maybe that’s not exactly what you’re worried about. If anything, it gives you an opportunity to settle down, to find love…you’re just not sure if Arthur is on the same page.

There’s a bit of tension and a dash of nerves the day they leave. Even Abigail, despite her grievances with John, looks on him with worry. He does have a terrible tendency to be shot.

At least you know Arthur will be on the safer job – not that you and Arthur are exactly comparable to Abigail and John.

Writing and reading isn’t stimulating enough, so you play some dominoes with Abigail while Jack sits on her lap.

“Use that one, mamma,” he says, pointing to one.

She laughs. “There ain’t a place to put it, silly boy.”

“Maybe he’s trying to sabotage you,” you jest.

Abigail feigns indignation. “My boy would never do such a thing.”

“What does sabotage mean?”

“It means you’d make your mom lose on purpose so I can win.”

“Oh.”

It’s a good enough distraction, even if your mind wanders every now and then. Out of the corner of your eye you see the boys and Jenny packing up to go.

Dutch gives a big speech before they head out. After a while, his speeches all sound the same. _Have faith. Stick together. One last job._ It’s his charisma that gets everyone’s attention. He’s got the charm of both the angel and the devil on your shoulder. You can see the way it strengthens everyone, like they’re invincible. You know that they’re not.

When they leave, the camp looks rather desolate. The job requires a big crew, but you didn’t realize that meant most of the gang. Pearson busies himself with chopping up meat. Charles goes hunting. Uncle drinks and tries, but fails, to flirt with Susan.

“You okay?” asks Abigail.

You snap back to the game. You were so out of it that you didn’t even see Jack down and run off to go play with a bit stick. “Just nervous.”

“I think we all are. A bit exciting, though.”

“You know, once we’re all settled, I could start teaching Jack math or something. I know he’s young, but-”

“That would be great!”

“Really? I just thought, if we’re that far out west there won’t be much of a school.”

“You’re so good with him. I’m sure he’ll appreciate one day when he’s some big time lawyer or doctor. Something honest.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d call a lawyer completely honest.”

“But it pays good and don’t involve robbing people at gunpoint.”

“True.”

She looks over at him and gives a thoughtful sigh. “I just want what’s best for that boy. I don’t know if can give it to him.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself. You’re a good mother.”

She scoffs. “I know a lie when I hear one.”

“I guess I don’t know much of what a good mom is. Mine is dead and I-” You stop. It’s still so hard to talk about it.

“We’re all just trying our best,” says Abigail. “Besides, Jack likes you.”

“It’s easier to get a kid to like you when you aren’t their mother.”

This gets her to laugh. “I just can’t wait to start over and do this all right. Maybe going west will get John’s head out of his ass.”

“One can only hope.”

The game goes on for a bit more, but you’re not all that focused on it. Abigail ends up winning and enjoys rubbing it in your face. You smile and laugh along, but you keep thinking about the job.

You put everything away while Abigail leaves for Jack who is dangerously close to burning himself on the campfire. A heavy sigh slips past your lips. It’s time to let these feelings go.

When Hosea calls out your name you jump.

“Sorry,” he says. You turn to see he’s got a fishing rod in hand. “Didn’t mean to scare you there.”

You place a hand over racing heart and smile. “Don’t worry. My head’s just in the clouds today.”

“Well, maybe you need something to ground you. How would you like to go fishing with us?”

“Us?”

Behind Hosea you see Arthur getting his things ready.

“Oh, I don’t know how to fish,” you say, suddenly afraid of embarrassing yourself in front of him.

“No worries! We’ll teach you. Or at least I will.”

Arthur isn’t too happy about that insinuation, but he doesn’t disagree, either.

You head down to the river together at the down turned log. You can’t imagine there’s a large pool of good fish here, but Hosea seems like the type that fishes just to relax. Arthur you’re not so sure. He’s never expressed an explicit interest in fishing, only going when someone else is. He must like it at least a little bit, otherwise why would he waste so much time?

Hosea sits down and takes out his bait. He hands some cheese, gross and maybe a little moldy. He laughs at your reaction.

“The cheese ain’t gonna kill you,” says Arthur.

“No, but it might make me throw up.”

“Just do it where we can’t see you,” says Hosea.

“Thanks for the concern.”

Hosea talks the most, telling a story about someone he knew long ago. He likes telling stories, you realize. Maybe it’s his age that makes him feel wise, like he’s passing down knowledge to you and Arthur. It’s kind of nice, actually. He reminds you of your father in a lot of ways. He, too, would go on and on about his younger days, repeating the same stories over and over again and laughing every time even though they weren’t funny.

“You know, Bessie and I used to come down here a long time ago,” says Hosea.

“Who’s Bessie?” you ask.

“My wife.”

You frown. “I didn’t know you’re married.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Oh.” _Oh._ Past tense. You’re not really sure what to say to that. He speaks with such a wistful sadness that you can’t imagine he did anything but love his wife. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. She would’ve liked you, though. A city girl stuck with a bunch of violent outlaws.”

“I don’t know if I’d call myself a city girl anymore.”

“We’ve indoctrinated you, eh?”

“She’s as blood thirsty as the rest of us,” jokes Arthur.

You bite back a grin. “There’s nothing wrong with being a little bit civilized.”

“Don’t let Dutch hear you say that,” says Hosea.

If Dutch didn’t like you being a little bit civilized, he would’ve kicked you out long ago. You like to think that a part of him secretly likes having someone like you around. He sure spends quite a bit of time with you, much to Molly’s disapproval.

“You still coming west with us?” asks Hosea.

“Out west? Of course I am. I mean, if I’m being honest I don’t really have anywhere else to go.”

“At least you’re with the right people.”

“I dunno if I’d call us ‘the right people,’” says Arthur.

“Look, we may not be perfect, but we’re…well, we’re like a family. A horribly dysfunctional one, but still a family.”

“Isn’t that how every family is?” you quip.

Hosea gives a laugh. “I don’t think I would know. I haven’t been in many families. Or should I say I haven’t been a _real_ member in many families. I’ve pretended to be in plenty.”

“You should’ve considered a career in theater.”

“I’d prefer to scam the rich, not perform for them.”

“Who says you can’t do both at the same time?”

“You got me there. You picked a smart one, Arthur.”

Arthur clears his throat loudly. You glance over to see him looking anywhere but your direction. For a split second, you see guilt flash over Hosea’s face, but it’s gone as fast as it appeared.

“It’s a good thing he’s got someone like you as a friend,” Hosea continues and some of the newfound tension releases. “Someone needs to watch his back once I’m gone.”

“You ain’t going anywhere soon, old man,” says Arthur.

Judging by the hacking he does, you’re not so sure about that. Arthur might be in denial, but you know a dying man when you see one. Despite his condition, Hosea still has quite a bit of energy. You see him when he crashes after a long day.

After about an hour the boredom sets in. It’s hard to sit still. How do people find this relaxing? It’s just sitting here hoping to get a bite and staring at nothing when that bite never comes. Hosea’s better at it anyway, pulling in fish here and there while you have yet to catch a single one. You start to wonder if the cheese was some kind of joke on you, but neither Hosea nor Arthur are laughing.

Is this how Arthur felt during the play? You have a sudden appreciation for what he did. You certainly don’t have the patience to sit here for much longer.

“You getting restless there, princess?” says Arthur.

“Watch it, cowboy,” you snark back. ‘And yes. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a fisherman.”

“It’s not for everyone,” says Hosea. “Isn’t that right, Arthur?”

“Hosea…” It’s the tone he uses every time he knows Hosea is about to embarrass him.

“You know, one time Dutch and I took Arthur out fishing and he gets this strong bite. So strong that it nearly pulls him into the water.”

Arthur shakes his head and looks away, jaw clenched. You can’t tell if he’s jokingly mad or if he really is upset.

“He spends all this time trying to reel it in.” Hosea pretends to struggle with his own rod. “After a good twenty minutes, he finally gets his hands on it.” He starts laughing, barely able to finish his own story. “It’s a smallmouth bass, no heavier than two ounces!”

Hosea gets a good kick out of it, laughing more as he finishes. You join in, a little guilty when Arthur doesn’t, but eventually he catches your eye and smiles too.

“It was a bad rod,” he says defensively.

“That’s what they all say,” says Hosea.

“If it makes you feel any better, my father’s friend took me hunting once,” you say. “I know it’s not the same thing, but close enough. He wanted me to shoot a rabbit, but I started crying. I couldn’t do it. I ended up accidentally shooting _him_ instead. My father thought it was hilarious. He didn’t come around after that.”

“Well, I’ll make sure to steer clear of you out there,” says Hosea.

“She’s a better shot than you think,” says Arthur.

After a few more minutes, Hosea gets up and stretches. “I think I’ve had enough. You two feel free to stay.”

“Getting old, old man?” jests Arthur.

“Old and _wise._ Don’t have too much fun.”

Arthur gives him a two finger salute as he grabs his catches and heads back toward camp.

There’s a strange silence that falls between you. Neither of you know exactly what to say, especially with Hosea gone. He _always_ knows just what to say. He knows how to make everyone around him calm and comfortable, an expert at diffusing troublesome situations. He should’ve come along on the bank job instead of Micah. A con artist is nothing without his silvertongue.

Arthur doesn’t have that same talent. He can comfort you, sure, but not when he’s thinking too hard about it.

“You know, we don’t have to stay,” says Arthur.

“What? Afraid of the water?”

He smirks. “You’re thinking of John.”

“I’m fine. It’s peaceful out here. After tomorrow…”

This sobers him. “I know.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. That something’ll go wrong. We won’t even know what happened for at least a day, and that’s assuming the best.”

“I’m sure they’ll be okay. Dutch knows what he’s doing.”

You’re not as convinced. You like Dutch. He’s kind, passionate, strong. He cares about these people like they’re his own flesh and blood. But there have been times in your talks that you’ve noticed things. Anger. Bloodlust. Fear. He coats them with sugary words so you don’t taste the sour underneath.

“I guess I’m just a little paranoid after the bank job,” you say.

Arthur tenses at the mention of it. “That was an exception, not the rule.”

“Or was it? What were Pinkertons doing that far west? What do they care about Armadillo?”

“You’re overthinking things again.”

“Maybe you’re not thinking enough.”

“Thinking’s never been my thing. It’s gotten me into more trouble than not.”

“Well, then I’ll think for the both of us.”

He gives a laugh. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It wouldn’t be if you’d do your share.”

“Not a chance.”

A silence falls. You’re suddenly aware of your close proximity, how your arms just hover near each other. A small twitch and you’d touch. There’s a tight pounding in your chest, closing up your throat and making you sweat. It might just be the heat.

He’s so close to you. If you leaned forward, you’d accidentally kiss him. Maybe you don’t want it to just be an accident. You remember what it was like outside the art gallery, his warm lips on yours and you want it again. The thought of it makes your heart flutter. There’s a dozen butterflies in your stomach begging you to kiss him or not, just _make a choice._

Is it just your imagination, or is he leaning closer? What if, by some miracle, he wants to kiss you, too? You’re sure you’re not his type, the same way he’s not yours. _Screw types_.

“Hey, Arthur.”

You turn around. It’s Hosea. Either he’s completely oblivious to what was about to happen or he _wanted_ to stop it. Regardless, you’re horribly irritated. And _hot._

“Forgot something?” asks Arthur, moving away from you. It hurts more than you’d think.

“Yes, actually, there’s something in town we need to get.”

You tense. Blackwater isn’t all that big, even if the others are confined to the docks.

“Can’t it wait?” says Arthur.

“No, it can’t.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Wait, what?” you say. “This better be an emergency.”

“It’s better to get it now than when the town is on high alert tomorrow,” says Hosea.

It makes sense, but you still don’t like it. “What about when we pass through Armadillo?”

“That place is mostly a ghost town.”

You’re quickly running out of arguments. Arthur isn’t anywhere near as worried and that worries you even more.

“What if you get caught in the middle of what’s going on?”

“We’ll be fine,” says Hosea. He puts on his best Dutch impression. “Have some faith.”

“Just come back safe, okay?” you say. “I don’t want corpses coming back.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” says Arthur.

The way he says it makes your body heat up. That deep, rugged voice of his, a nickname that’s just for you. _God_ you wish Hosea hadn’t interrupted the two of you. Who knows what you’d be doing right now?

He gives you a smile before putting away his rod and following Hosea, leaving you all alone with an empty bag for the fish you should’ve caught.

* * *

If your nerves weren’t bad before, they’re relentless now. The longer Hosea and Arthur are gone, the worse it gets. You can’t sit, you can’t stand – you resort to pacing around camp which only irks Susan enough that she begs you to stop.

“Sorry,” you say as you pass her for your tent. At least in there you can freak out however bad you want and no one can see.

You make sure its shut and secure before sitting down on you cot. Arthur and Hosea are experienced gunmen, they’ll be fine if something happens.

You stop. There’s something wrong. Horses are coming close, lots of them. It can’t be anyone from the job – they were going out west to hide, weren’t they? Had the law decided they’d had enough and tracked the gang down?

When they come into view, there’s brief relief when you see it isn’t the law. Dutch leads them, followed closely by Micah. Arthur and Hosea are with them, too. Except Arthur is missing his horse. He's riding with Hosea. There’s John, Javier, but not everyone. Mac is missing. So is Sean. As they all dismount you see that not everyone is in one piece, either. Jenny and Davey are both injured and the others are escorting them your way.

“What the hell happened?” asked Pearson.

“They knew,” says Dutch angrily. “They fucking knew.”

You’ve never seen him so angry and distraught, his usual calm and collected demeanor dead and gone. He’s frazzled, disheveled, there’s blood on his clothes. You don’t know whose it is. The others aren’t any better. John holds a wound that’s bleeding. Davey is weak and Jenny is barely conscious. She falls of her horse. You and Lenny rush forward to try and catch her.

She’s weak. Pale. There isn’t much time to save her if you can save her at all. She’s been shot several times. It’s a shock she even made it this far.

“What do we do?” asks Lenny frantically.

It all catches you by surprise. What _do_ you do? Jenny is at death’s door and you’re not sure you can spare her from the reaper. Lenny holds her close, telling her it’ll be okay, but she’s not awake. You feel her pulse, slow, frail.

“Everyone, pack up!” shouts Dutch. “Get everything you can and let’s get moving.”

You’re too busy treating Jenny the best you can while the girls pack your things for you. Abigail is too concerned with John’s injury to help you and Susan is busy with ordering everyone around, so Lenny helps you the best he can. He isn’t well versed in medicine, but he cares enough about Jenny to try.

“Is she gonna make it?” he asks.

You look down at her on the ground, her blood seeping into the grass. She won’t wake up no matter how hard you try.

“I don’t know,” you say, the sudden realizing washing over you like a bucket of ice water.

Here you are, the camp doctor. Dutch spared you because you could keep them alive and healthy. And here is Jenny. Davey. John. And those are the only injuries you know of.

When the girls are finished you order them around to help you out. Abigail finishes up with John while Tilly and Karen focus on Jenny for you. As she’s lifted into your wagon, you head for Davey. He’s in better shape, but that isn’t saying much. He, too, has lost a lot of blood.

You rip open his shirt to see a bullet wound. One single shot, but unlike John and you, it’s clearly hit something important. There’s an exit wound in his back, but it’s clear the bullet ripped through him at an angle that could’ve taken out several organs. You put bandages on his back and have him lay down on them so you can put pressure on the entry wound.

“Stay awake for me, Davey,” you say. “Where’s Mac?”

“He isn’t here?” He tries to prop himself up, but collapses.

That doesn’t bode well. “I’m sure he’s fine. Just relax.” Lying leaves a bad taste in your mouth, but you need him calm. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I – it all happened so fast,” he chokes out. He coughs up some blood. _Shit._

“It’s okay. Just keep talking for me, okay?”

“I want to see Mac.”

“We’ll find him. Right now I just want to keep alive.”

He can’t have much longer either. You might be able to stop some of the bleeding, but nothing internally. You’ll just have to wait and see.

He gets loaded onto your wagon, too, right next to Jenny. When everything’s packed up, everyone takes their places with Dutch taking the lead. You catch Arthur’s gaze for a brief second. He’s as worried as the rest of them, but he has a calm head on his shoulders. It makes you feel marginally better, even if it isn’t much.

Lenny hops up to be next to Jenny while Abigail and Swanson join you. Tilly takes Jack with her up ahead.

It’s amazing how quickly things went south and how quickly everyone responded. It can’t have been more than a half hour, probably much less. There’s some evidence left of the gang being there, like the cooling cinders of the campfire. But the tents, the tables, the chairs – they’re all packed up nicely on the wagons and ready to head out. The horses are rounded up and those who can’t fit on the wagons ride their own.

“John, Micah,” you hear Dutch say. “I need you to go scouting for us.”

“What?” you reply. You jump down from your wagon and head up toward the front of the caravan. “John’s injured.”

“I understand your concern, but we’re unfortunately tight on men as you can see.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. Bill, Charles, Javier, Arthur – they’re all more than capable of heading out instead. John needs to be here with his family, even if he doesn’t know it.

“He’ll be fine, new blood,” says Micah. “He’s got his guardian angel with him.”

The sound of Micah’s voice grates on you like silverware rubbing together. You frown at him where he sits up on his horse.

It’s not worth the fight. With a scowl, you retreat back to your wagon.

“Everyone ready?” Dutch calls out. “Let’s ride!”

* * *

The road ahead is rough, both physically and figuratively. It’s hard keeping tabs on Jenny and Davey as the wagon bounces around on dirt and rocks. Your guess is that the caravan is headed north. West Elizabeth is like likely locked down or will be if it isn’t already. You don’t know about New Austin. North probably is the best bet, at least to regroup and make a new plan.

The air gets a chill to it the farther north you go. Abigail pulls out some jackets and scarves for everyone.

You try to take Jenny’s pulse but it isn’t there. She’s gone. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You’re the closest thing they have to a doctor, saving them is your _job._ She’s already turning cold or maybe that’s just the temperature. You’re too out of it to tell.

Lenny says your name. “Is she alive?”

You leave too long of a silence as you try to figure out what to say. He figures it out on his own and turns away, clenching his jaw. The first causality and you’re sure it’s not the last.

“I’ll go tell Dutch,” says Swanson sadly, jumping down from the wagon.

Jenny’s body lays still next to Davey. You have a horrible, sinking feeling that he’s not too far behind her.

“It ain’t your fault,” says Abigail, rubbing your back comfortingly.

It sure feels like it. Poor Jenny, a sweet young girl who was only ever nice to you. How do you repay her? You fail to save her.

Lenny stays quiet, holding onto Jenny’s lifeless hand. It only makes it worse. The wagon is suddenly too tight, too confined. It’s hard to breathe. It’s like air is getting stuck in your throat, making you choke.

What the _fuck_ happened on that ferry?

Swanson is gone for several minutes and you turn your focus to Davey. There isn’t much else you can do for him and you know it’s only a matter of time before he joins Jenny. How are you supposed to face the rest of the group of the two of them both die?

“You okay?” asks Abigail.

You don’t answer her. What are you supposed to say? Of course you’re not okay! Jenny’s dead, Davey’s dying, you don’t even know about Sean and Mac. Even if they’re alive, you’re all abandoning them in Blackwater, probably in the hands of the law. If they survived the shootout, then they won’t survive custody.

Eventually Swanson returns and climbs back up on the wagon with a drink in hand. He offers it you. You’re ready to turn him down, but then you catch sight of dead Jenny again. You swipe it out of his hand and throw back a chug before returning it. The alcohol burns as it goes down, but it’s a good kind of burn. It brings you back from the daze her death put you in.

“Where are we headed?” asks Abigail.

“Ambarino,” says Swanson. “We’re going into the Grizzlies.”


	17. welcome to the grizzlies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF words cannot express how sorry i am over how long this took to get to you guys. my life has become unexpectedly busy with my puppy (my GOD is he a handful) and my work is now open every day for the summer so i haven't had as much time to write. BUT. alas. here i am. enjoy!

_I have not seen or spoken with her since we left, but I can only imagine the pain she must be feeling. She prides herself on taking care of us and I have no doubt she blames herself. I hope I can speak with her soon._

* * *

There isn’t time to stop and bury Jenny. Her body is left on the wagon for several days as Lenny grieves over her. It’s hard to watch. You turn your attention to Davey, but he isn’t doing any better. His pulse is faint and slow. He’s unresponsive. It’s already too late.

The farther north the caravan goes, the more snow falls and the colder it gets. Soon the jacket and scarf Abigail gave you isn’t enough. The bitter chill nips at your face and your hands shake despite the thick, leather gloves. Maybe that’s just the stress. As far as you know, there isn’t much of a plan besides hide in the Grizzlies. It’s a stupid plan. The cold will be bad for Hosea’s health and make it harder for John to heal from his wound. You don’t know what Dutch is thinking.

 _Have faith_ , he’d probably say. You glance at the light snowfall that just keeps growing stronger. Faith in what? In him, after what happened on the ferry?

Speaking of John, he and Micah still haven’t been seen since they went scouting up ahead. Abigail is clearly nervous. She holds onto Jack, rocking him back and forth and trying to keep him warm. She keeps quiet for the most part.

You sit back. There’s nothing else you can do.

“Reverend,” you say with a shaky voice, “go tell Dutch that we’ll need to stop soon.”

“Davey?” he asks.

You chew the inside of your cheek and shake your head. It’s impossible to say it out loud.

He nods, though, and jumps out of the wagon. Abigail places a hand on your shoulder.

“It ain’t your fault,” she says softly.

It doesn’t feel that way. The guilt is _crushing._ You dread having to look Dutch and Arthur and Hosea and all the others in the eye.

You haven’t even gotten a chance to speak with the three of them since they all came back. It was a rush to get everything together and head north, but now it’s calmed down enough to try – but that means having to go out in this snow. _No thanks._

In the fog and dark it’s nearly impossible to see behind the front of the wagon. Arthur’s up there somewhere on his horse. Or really Charles’ horse, from what you’ve heard. Boedicea apparently didn’t make it.

“How much longer is this gonna take?” says Abigail.

“Not much longer now,” says Swanson.

He isn’t wrong. Within another half hour the wagons pull into an old, abandoned town. Only dim lamps to illuminate the way, it’s hard to tell. There’s buildings with walls and roofs and that’s good enough for you. They won’t completely block out the cold, but that’s okay.

If your map reading skills are worth anything, this town is called Colter. You’ve never heard of it before and judging by its dilapidated appearance, you’re not surprised.

The wagons come to a stop. You scoot past the others to drop down into the snow. You’re thankful your boots cover your shins, but the snow is high enough to soak the bottom of your skirt. It’ll take ages to dry, even with a nice, hot fire.

While you can’t see all the wagons, you notice lamps being lit up ahead. They converge in front of a building. A few moments later, Bill and Arthur show up at the end of the wagon with a cot.

“Dutch wants him inside,” says Arthur.

Lenny helps them move Davey onto the cot while you escort Abigail, Jack, and Swanson through the snow and toward the cabin Dutch has decided on. He holds the door open as you hurry inside, desperate to get out of the cold.

“Bring him in here!” says Hosea.

Arthur and Bill follow, carrying an eerily still Davey. They drop him on a table in the center of the cabin while everyone piles in. Even with the tight interior, no one has enough body heat to share.

Susan gives out orders, her usual bark toned down. You approach Davey, noticing there’s no longer visible breath escaping his lips. Placing two fingers on his throat, you find no heartbeat.

He’s gone.

“How’s he doing?” asks Hosea.

You lean back, the weight of another death crushing you. It closes up your throat like an allergic reaction. All you can do is shake your head and close your eyes.

The mood turns somber. It’s quiet. Unbearably quiet. All you hear is the frigid wind outside, strong enough to make the calls creak and moan. You hope this cabin doesn’t collapse in on itself. There’s already been enough death as of late.

“There was nothing more you could’ve done,” says Swanson.

Abigail appears at your side, taking your arm into your hands in a comforting gesture. It’s nice to know she’s there and that she cares, but it doesn’t ease the pain. These people expected better of you. Dutch took you in with the purpose of caring for these people, yet now there’s a body count. _If he just would’ve listened._

Davey’s eyes are covered as Hosea says, “What are we gonna do? We need supplies.”

“Well, first of all you’re gonna stay here and you are gonna get yourself warm,” Dutch tells him. “Now, I sent John and Micah scouting out ahead. Arthur and I, we’re gonna ride out, see if we can find one of them.”

“In this?” asks Arthur.

“Just for a short bit. I don’t see what other choice we have.” He turns to the rest of the group. “Listen – listen to me all of you, for a moment. Now we’ve had, well, a bad couple of days. I loved Davey…Jenny…Sean, Mac, they may be okay, we don’t know. But we lost some folks. Now, if could throw myself in the ground in their stead, I’d do it gladly. But, we’re gonna ride out and we are gonna find some food. Everybody, we’re safe now. There ain’t nobody following us through a storm like this one and by the time they get here – well, we’re gonna be…we’re gonna be long gone. We’ve been through worse than this before. Mr. Pearson, Miss Grimshaw, I need you to turn this place into a camp. We may be here for a few days. Now all of you, all of you, get yourselves warm. Stay strong. Stay with me. We ain’t done yet! Come on, Arthur.”

They exit, your eyes meeting Arthur’s for a split second before he disappears into the night. The door shuts behind them. It doesn’t do much to shut out the cold, but it’s better you suppose.

“Alright, we’ve got some work to do,” says Susan.

Everyone bustles around you, but your head isn’t there. Swanson, Pearson, Javier, and Bill work on burying the bodies. Lenny and Charles are assigned guard duty. Mary-Beth and Tilly get a fire going. In the meantime everyone else, save for Uncle, is busy making a home out of this ghost town.

Susan avoids you and it stings. Is she mad? Disappointed? Your throat burns and you blink away unshed tears.

There’s several cabins, though only a few are inhabitable. You get your own little spot at the end of the large, open cabin where most of the group will be hold up. A cot is placed out just in case anyone comes back injured.

You sit down on the edge of the cot and remove the gloves from your shaking hands. Closing your eyes, you inhale slowly through your nose and let it out through your mouth. The smell of smoke from the fire fills the cabin and you wrinkle your nose. With so many people in here, you’re not sure it’s even necessary. The body heat in addition to the inevitable rising tension will warm up the place just as good.

“You alright?” asks Mary-Beth as she approaches you. You can barely see her face in the dark.

“I’ll be okay,” you say. “You just go get yourself warm.”

“Are you sure? Do you need to talk?”

“I’m fine. I just…I need to think.”

“Okay. But if you ever need a listening ear, I’m here.”

“Thank you, Mary-Beth. That’s kind of you.”

She hesitates for a moment, but finally turns away. This isn’t her problem to deal with.

You join Abigail in cleaning off the table where Davey’s dead body lay just moments before. How did this all go so wrong so fast? It’s been a few days since the group left Blackwater. By now you should’ve all met up in the west to start your new lives. As much as the heat could get to you, it’s far preferable to this frigid chill threatening to bite your fingers off.

“How’s Jack?” you ask, mindlessly moving a rag across the table.

“He’s…he’s okay,” says Abigail. “As okay as any of us can be.”

You glance over your shoulder where the girls are bundling him up in front of a fire. “Has this ever happened before?”

“We’ve moved around, but not like this.” She chews on the inside of her cheek, pausing mid-swipe. “Do you think – do you think John…”

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

“He was hurt. Dutch should’ve never sent him out.”

“I know. I tried to tell him not to.”

“What if he don’t come back?”

“Do you really want him to?”

“Of course I do! I – I do. It’s just…I know it might sound silly to you, but I still love him.”

“It’s not silly.” You pause. “I hope he comes back, too.”

She laughs. “Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“Miss Roberts, Mrs. Brooks, you ain’t helping if you’re just standing around,” snaps Susan as she walks by.

Abigail scowls at her. “Old crone,” she mutters under her breath.

“I’m going to step out for a minute, okay?” you say.

“Of course.” Abigail gently touches your upper arm. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Her comfort warms your heart and you give a grateful nod. Having her for a friend is one of the best things to come out of all the tragedy you’ve been through.

You step outside for some air, even if it’s the coldest air you’ve ever breathed. It turns sour the moment you see Lenny, huddled and shivering in the freezing wind. Looking at him is just another reminder of your failure.

“I’m sorry about Jenny. I know you liked her.”

“It ain’t your fault. You didn’t kill her.”

“I should’ve saved her. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, you did everything you could. I know you would’ve saved her if you could.”

“I just want you to know that she didn’t suffer for long.”

“Thank you. Now go get out of this cold.”

Why does everyone keep looking out for you? You, who have now let two people die? You don’t get it. They should be angry. Furious. You’ve been with the gang for six months and while that feels like ages, it’s still so much shorter than almost everyone else.

Retreating back into the cabin, you try your hand at helping out as much as you can. The biggest problem is you can’t quite escape the pity glances everyone keeps sending your way. Even though Susan is as cold and callous as ever, you’d rather be berated by her than have all these sympathetic eyes on you. Their gazes crawl over your skin, nipping like the cold over and over again, demanding your attention. You ignore them the best you can, keeping your head down as you move around.

It goes on like this until there’s somewhat of a camp in the cabins. Susan places Dutch, Arthur, Hosea, and Molly in one cabin together, getting their own rooms while everyone else would have to share. At least she assigns Micah to one other than yours.

“Hey, somebody’s coming!” comes Lenny’s voice. “Looks like Dutch. Hey, everybody, Dutch is back.”

A good chunk of the group rushes out to greet him, but you aren’t so inclined to. There’s a bit of resentment toward Dutch bubbling up in you. It’s probably not worth getting so upset about. For all you know, the ferry job was out of his control and this would happen no matter what. That doesn’t, however, change the fact that you had your reservations. _Have faith._ You clench your jaw.

Tilly and Karen come in with an unfamiliar face. A woman, dirty blonde hair and wearing her night clothes. Her face is twisted in anger and grief, her body violently shaking despite a warm coat wrapped around her.

Tilly calls your name. “Can you give us a hand, please?”

Getting to your feet, you close the distance between you and them. Up close her cheeks are tear stained, her eyes red and puffy. Her eyes dart all around, taking in the cabin and looking like she’s about to vomit.

“Sit her down,” you say.

They ease her down on a bench against the wall. Tilly goes rummaging for a blanket while Karen takes a seat next to the woman, comfortingly touching her arm.

“It’s gonna be okay, Mrs. Adler,” she says.

Mrs. Adler. At least you’ve got a name now.

“No…not it ain’t gonna be okay…” Her voice breaks and she lets her face fall into her palms as she cries.

Tilly returns with a blanket and places it on Mrs. Adler’s lap.

“Can you tell me what happened?” you ask. You’re about to place your hands on her knees, but you’re not certain how she’ll react. She appears unstable and jittery, shaking from the cold and the trauma. People like her are unpredictable.

“Those _bastards_ ,” she seethes. “They killed my husband. They took – oh _God._ ” She breaks down, painful sobs choking her as she fails to keep herself together.

“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.”

Your words run right off her. She isn’t consolable right now and you know better than to force it. The best thing for her to get warm and calm down enough to stop shaking.

You don’t see Arthur that night and that’s okay. He’s probably exhausted. You’re not even sure you can face him, not after Jenny and Davey. A thought keeps running through your head uninvited. What if Arthur ends up another gravestone you have to leave behind?

It’s impossible to sleep that night. Abigail stays up worrying about John. Mrs. Adler continues crying. You give your blanket to Jack, leaving you freezing. There’s just too many people in such a small space and it’s suffocating you. You think it’d leave you warmer, but if anything you feel more alone than ever.

* * *

 

By morning you’ve managed to get a few hours of shut eye, at least you think so. It’s hard to tell when you can’t stay asleep more than five minutes at a time. You’re up early with Susan shouting out orders for the new day. Cleaning, repairs to the wagons, cooking, all the good stuff. Again she ignores you. For once you’re craving for her to yell some insult at you, to call you Mrs. Brooks, to do _anything_. The silent treatment grates at you and you can’t take everyone’s pity glances anymore so you seek out Abigail.

“Would you mind covering for me?” you ask. “I just need some air.”

“Everything alright?” she asks, brow furrowed.

“Not really. It’s just been…a lot.”

She moves toward her scarf. “I can come with you.”

Waving your hands, you gesture to Jack. “No, you stay. If John comes back he’ll need you more than me.”

“You did save his life, you know.”

You remember all too well. That being said, John’s probably fine. Abigail knows enough about medicine to help if necessary. Plus, you’re no good when you feel like you’re going to explode.

“Well, don’t get lost out there,” Abigail finally concedes.

Exhaling with relief, you take her colds hands in yours and give her a smile. “I’ll be okay.”

Your feet take you over to Pearson’s little area where he and Uncle are sharing a drink.

“Where’s the food?” you ask.

“Outside of Blackwater,” says Pearson.

Your blood boils. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. It’s fucking cold and now you’re unreasonably angry. “Are you kidding me?”

“Hey, there wasn’t enough time to grab everything!”

You step forward and rip the beers out of their hands.

“I was drinking that!” says Uncle indignantly.

“Try and drink it now.” You pour out the bottles onto the ground.

They yell at you, Pearson throwing his hands up and Uncle shaking his head.

“There ain’t much left!” says Uncle.

“Then I guess that means you’ll have to do something for once,” you say.

“What has gotten into you? I always thought you was a nice, young lady.”

You point a finger in his face. “If I catch you drinking instead of working again, I’m knocking you out, dragging you into the woods, and leaving you there to freeze so the wolves can feast on your corpse.”

Much to your irritation, Uncle only laughs. “Well, okay, Miss Grimshaw.”

“Don’t call me that again.”

You storm off in the direction of Davey’s grave. It isn’t much, just covered in snow and rocks to mark his resting place. You didn’t know him real well beyond some interactions here and there, but his death still hurts. _You were supposed to save him. You were supposed to keep them all alive._

Eventually the chill becomes too much, so you head inside the cabin shared between Hosea, Arthur, Dutch, and Molly. You expect Arthur to be here, but it’s only Dutch and Hosea sitting front of the fireplace sharing a drink.  

“Is everyone trying to get drunk around here?” you ask.

They turn around, Dutch flashing you a smile and raising his drink. “If it isn’t our resident doctor.”

“I think mortician is more accurate.”

His smile drops. “Davey and Jenny ain’t your fault.”

Hosea gets up, stifling a cough as he grabs you a spare chair and places it next to him. As you sit down you spot Molly hiding away in her room, scowling in your direction until she disappears out of sight.

“The more I hear people say that, the less I believe it,” you say. The chair creaks underneath you as you lean back.

“Jenny was too shot up,” says Hosea. “She’s lucky she even made it back to camp. And Davey – well, the cold didn’t help.”

He’s got a point. Doesn’t make you feel better, though. You’re so sick and tired of everyone telling you over and over again how it isn’t your fault, how no one could have saved them. It makes you sick. You’d rather them be angry, kick you out of camp, _something._

“What’s the plan, Dutch?” you ask.

He leans forward to get a better look at you. “It’s a work in progress. Right now we can’t go nowhere until the thaw.”

“That could be weeks from now.”

“I know, I know. This is going to be hard on all of us. Some more than most. But have _faith._ We’ll get out of this and we’ll be stronger than ever because of it. This is nothing more than a bump in the road to _paradise._ ”

If you have to hear him say the word faith again you might just rip his tongue out. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you breathe out and in again. This whole thing is a real goddamn mess. No amount of faith is going to fix it.

“Where’s Arthur?” you ask.

“He and Javier went looking for John,” says Hosea.

 _Great._ All you need is for the three of them to go missing forever. You’re dying to talk to Arthur or to even just be in the same room as him again. He won’t look at you with pity the way the others do. He’ll probably tell you there’s nothing you could’ve done and it’s time to move on. People die. It happens. Not that it would make you feel any better. It would just be a nice change of pace.

“How’s Mrs. Sadie Adler doing?” asks Dutch.

You shrug. “As good as she can be given the circumstances. I’m surprised she didn’t just run off.”

Dutch shakes his head. “Poor woman.” He clenches his fists. “Damn O’Driscolls.”

You freeze. “O’Driscolls?”

“Didn’t anyone say?” says Hosea. “O’Driscolls killed her husband.”

“How did they get all the way up here?”

“Probably the same reason as us.”

“But we’ll be moving on before they do,” says Dutch.

You think of the possibility that Colm O’Driscoll could see you and report back to Flynn. Unlikely since it feels like you’ll be stuck in this town until you die, but still a frightening thought. Up here you’re safe from Flynn. He can’t get you if he doesn’t know where you are.

You don’t voice these concerns to Dutch and Hosea, afraid they’ll think you foolish. Flynn should be the last thing on your mind, but his nails are still too deep. A chill runs down your spine that isn’t from the cold.

* * *

 

In the evening Arthur and Javier come back with John. They get him to the cot before he collapses into the snow as Abigail thanks the two of them over and over again. You and Arthur meet each others’ eyes, or at least you think so. It’s too dark to be sure.

“I think it’s worse than it looks,” says John, wincing as he’s laid down.

“You stupid man,” scolds Abigail as you gather your supplies. “You could’ve died out there!”

“Wouldn’t I be so lucky?”

“Can your bickering wait for just ten minutes?” you ask.

You take John by the chin and turn his head to get a good look at his injuries. There’s two deep gashes on his right cheek that have left his face covered in splotches of blood. A few other cuts here and there are hidden underneath.

“You’ll need stitches,” you say. You suddenly regret pouring out Uncle and Pearson’s beers. You glance up at Swanson. “You got any whiskey left?”

He fidgets at first, tapping his fingers on the bible in his hands before retreating to his things.

“This is going to-”

John cuts you off. “Hurt, I know.” He waves a hand. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Abigail stays loyally at his side while you puncture his skin with the needle over and over again, pulling the flesh together as best you can. He takes sips of the whiskey until Abigail takes the bottle away and Swanson snatches it back. When you’re finished, you place bandages around his head. It covers almost the entirety of his right eye, but it’s the only way to keep the wounds secure.

“So, what happened out there?” you ask, sitting back. “That’s a pretty nasty wound.”

“Is there anything to tell?” He motions to his face. “I think this is enough.”

“You have the worst luck, John Marston.”

“Well, I’m alive, so I guess I’m inclined to agree.”

Abigail huffs and leaves for Jack has been kept separate from John in front of the fire.

“Too bad the wolves didn’t do anything to your attitude.”

“Don’t _you_ start.”

You put up your hands in surrender. “I’m not starting anything. I’d say I know better than to pick a fight with you, but if you can’t even take on a couple wolves than I don’t have much to worry about.”

“Jesus. No wonder Arthur likes you.”

“I don’t _want_ to give you a hard time. You just make everything incredibly difficult.” You chew on the inside of your cheek. “Just…tell me you weren’t trying to run.”

“What?”

“Tell me you were scouting ahead and things went wrong and you weren’t looking for an opportunity to get out of here.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look you in the eyes. It makes your blood boil hot enough you think the room temperature went up a few degrees. Even after everything you said to him when he was shot, he still hasn’t learned, has he? What will it take? Abigail and Jack deserve so much better.

With a sigh, you get up and leave John to suffer alone. It’s what he wants anyway.

* * *

Another morning comes. The first thing you do is check on John and change his bandages. Abigail doesn’t speak to him and keeps Jack away. You can’t really blame her.

Mrs. Adler has made some improvement, and by improvement you mean not crying all the time. She’s mostly closed off, stuck sitting with the other girls while they try to keep warm but not speaking. You check on her every so often, but nothing you can do for her emotionally besides be there if she needs you.

Since everyone is here and, mostly, healthy, you finally decide to brave the road ahead and take Star into the woods for a ride.

She’s slow in the snow. You’ll have to keep that in mind for when you decide to come back.

It’s been…you can’t remember how many days you’ve been up in the mountains. Does it really matter? Isn’t not like you have anywhere else to be. If it weren’t for the dire circumstances, you’d be enamored with the scenery. The snow is gorgeous on the flora and every so often you see a deer dart away from you. 

You find an abandoned cabin east of Colter that you take refuge in. It breaks your heart to have to leave Star out in the cold like that, but there’s no other place to put her.

“Soon, girl,” you tell her. “I hope.”

Inside it’s a little warmer. Still too cold to take of your coat, but you’re out of the wind. The best part, though? The _silence._ No one crying, no one whining, no one arguing, no one making a fuss. You have this cabin all to yourself and it feels so good.

Furniture is strewn about. Maybe the O’Driscolls were here and went through the place. You look through the drawers of the kitchen and the dresser anyway. It’s all been cleaned out. Even the bed is missing.

You end up sitting on the floor, retrieving your journal and a pen from your bag. It feels like ages since you’ve been able to write anything, but as you touch the tip to the page, nothing comes out. The ink isn’t to blame – it’s you. The creative juices you had outside of Blackwater have been squeezed out of you. You try a couple of times to get it going, but nothing works. Staring a blank page, you wonder if you’ll ever write again.

The door cracks open and your heart jumps into your throat so fast it nearly chokes you. Cold air comes rushing in with some snow. It dawns on you that you don’t have a weapon and the cabin is so open and spacious that you could be shot and killed before you could ever call for help. _Not that anyone would hear._

O’Driscolls? Bandits? A bear? Your mind races as your intruder steps inside and closes the door behind them.

It’s just Arthur, coat wrapped around himself and the little string on his hat flapping in the wind as it’s locked out.

“What are you doing out here, miss?” he asks in a lighter than usual tone. It’s forced, though. You know him well enough to tell.

“Trying to get away from everyone,” you say.

His face falls. “I apologize for disturbing you.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you say quickly, a fresh wave of guilt rolling over you. “I don’t mind you.”

He stands at the door and takes off his hat, holding it by the rim. “You alright? We ain’t spoken much since we got here.”

“Not like there’s been a chance to.”

“The girls said you ain’t been acting yourself.”

Heat flashes across your face. “So now they’re gossiping about me?”

“Look, if you want me to leave-”

“No! Please, don’t – don’t go.” You try to not sound desperate for his company, but in truth, you are. You feel safe with him, at _home_ with him.

“You know, I reckon that storm’s gonna be here real soon,” he says.

You pause. “I can’t go back.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I couldn’t save them.” Your voice comes out much more quiet and timid than you intend. “I know what you’re going to say – that it’s not my fault. I’m the closest thing this group has to a doctor. They were depending on me to keep them alive and I failed.”

Arthur slowly makes his way over to you, the floorboards creaking under his boots. “Well, you unfortunately saved John.”

You give a dry laugh, but it feels better than moping. “That man can survive anything.”

“I dunno. You should see how scared he gets when Abigail has a go at him.”

“I’d pay to see that.” You shake your head, sliding to the side so Arthur can join you on the floor. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gone off like this.”

“To be fair, I wasn’t sure I could last one more second there.”

“Humans aren’t made to be in such close proximity to one another. I’m surprised no one’s killed each other yet.”

He props up one knee and leans an arm on it. “Just you wait.”

When you turn, you’re struck by how beautiful his profile is. It’s a silly thing to get caught up on right now, but it sends your stomach into a flurry. Has he always been this handsome? Or are you just starved after all these months? It’s been so long since someone intimately touched you and even longer since it was wanted. It occurs to you how much you want _Arthur_ to touch you. Thinking about it with him right next to you makes you feel dirty. Your body flushes and you turn away.

If he feels the sudden tension, he doesn’t say anything. It’s best that he doesn’t. Even if he returned some of the feelings you’re trying to deny, would he ever be able to move on from Mary? Or would you always be second best? And why are you even thinking like this? There has to be something else to talk about before you start seriously considering jumping his bones.

“What happened at the ferry?” you blurt. You curse inwardly, but it’s too late to take it back now.

Arthur’s face falls, his voice somber. “Javier said Dutch shot a woman.”

“Self-defense?”

“Don’t sound like it.”

“Doesn’t sound like _him._ Maybe he’s just remembering it wrong.”

He pauses thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

“Someone must’ve talked, right?”

“Or maybe our luck just ran out.”

The conversation soured far more than you intended. Still, it’s better than borderline fantasizes about Arthur when he’s close enough to touch.

“What are we supposed to do now?” you ask. “Just hope for the best?”

“Dutch will have a plan. He always does.”

You clench your jaw. “And what if he doesn’t?”

“We’ll figure it out. Right now we just gotta wait for the thaw.”

“I can’t take it up here anymore. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

You hear the creaking of the floor as he gets to his feet and approaches you. It’s hard to face him. What if deep down he sees you as the failure you are? What if he turns against you?

He takes your shoulders and forces you to face him. You haven’t been this close to him since you sat on that log by the river, lips only centimeters apart.

Does he think about that moment, too? Does he wonder what would’ve happened had Hosea not interrupted? It’s a thought that haunts you. Maybe the two of you could be in this cabin alone, your bodies keeping each other warm. Or maybe the cold in the air wouldn’t leave between the two of you, even once off this mountain.

You could find out, here and now. You could close the distance and kiss him anyway. If there’s anything you’ve learned, it’s things can go wrong real fast no matter how good your plan is. You think of Lenny, grieving over something that never was. What if that happens to you and Arthur?

But can you risk the friendship you’ve built? It’s too high a price.

Shifting, you turn away from him and hope he doesn’t hear the pounding of your heart. You imagine an alternate timeline where you have the courage to make a move and it turns out to be the best decision you ever made. Instead you’ll be left never knowing and it hurts more than you expected.

The wind picks up considerably, so you get to your feet and open up the door, only for it to swing open so fast it nearly takes your arm off. You yip in surprise, trying, and failing, to shut out the storm Arthur attempted to warn you about earlier. You hear him hurry over and with your combined strength, the door closes and you latch it for good measure.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” you say, shame coursing through you. “I’m sorry, we should’ve just gone back like you said.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “We’ll probably be stuck here a while though.”

Tears prick at your eyes, burning as you attempt to keep them from shedding. Is this what you are now? A colossal fuck up?

When Arthur isn’t looking you hastily wipe them away. He doesn’t need to see you like this.

“We can still try,” you offer, cringing at the way your voice cracks.

He notices, glancing up from where he’s trying to put beds together. “Nah, it’s too dangerous.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Hey.” He approaches you, taking you by your upper arms. “You need to stop apologizing so much. It ain’t like you got attacked by wolves.”

His attempt a joke lessens the tension, but the guilt weighs just as heavy. You sigh, placing your hands on your hips as he lets you go.

“I just can’t wait until we get off this mountain,” you say. “At some point someone’s gonna snap.”

He rubs his chin. “Can’t be too long now. Dutch is cooking up a plan.”

“Oh? What kind of plan?”

“A train. The O’Driscolls was gonna rob it, but one of them…let it slip.”

There’s enough of a pause before he finished his sentence that gets wondering _how_ the O’Driscoll let it slip. A lot of your morals have been bent or broken, but torture is still far off the table. It occurs to you that even after six months, there’s still a lot you don’t know about Arthur. The jobs you’ve been on with him and Hosea were nonviolent, thieving when people’s backs are turned. The shootouts you’ve participated in are far and few between and even then it’s a fight for your life.

You push those thoughts down, pretending you didn’t hear that awful pause. “Is robbing a train a good idea right now?”

Arthur takes a seat back on the floor. “You sound like Hosea.”

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing.” You cross your arms, slowly making your way toward him. “Dutch just needs to take a breath.”

“Maybe you’re right. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “What I do know is-” He puts out a finger for everything he lists. “We got no money, we’re freezing, we’re hungry, we got injured. I don’t think we got much of a choice.”

“When the thaw comes, we’ll head back west.”

“And straight into the Pinkertons.”

“We’ll get a boat, maybe go to Mexico.”

“And pay for it with what money?”

Your temper flairs. It’s unusual for you and Arthur to argue these days. “If we can steal money, why can’t we just steal a boat? Even better, why doesn’t one of us who the Pinkertons _aren’t_ looking for go back to the Blackwater and get the money?”

He raises his voice. “Because they’re looking for _all_ of us. It ain’t just gonna be local law, it’s government agents walking those streets just looking for a reason to bring someone in!”

The wind blows harder, making you jump as the cabin creaks. You hope it’s sturdy enough to sustain the storm. It has for this long, hasn’t it? At least the sudden silence cuts your argument short, even if there’s still more you want to say. You don’t want to fight, not now.

Tentatively, you get down next to him, shoulders touching. Being stuck up here isn’t good for anyone, even you and Arthur.

You lean your head against his shoulder, curling up at his side as you absorb his warmth. His coat makes him a comfy pillow. He doesn’t protest or try to push you off. He does tense slightly, but relaxes after a couple of seconds.

You fall asleep like that, nestled into his side, warm despite the freeze. It’s going to be a long road ahead, a long dangerous road, but you know if you’ve got Arthur, then everything’s going to be alright.

Everything’s going to be alright.

_Have faith._


End file.
